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form  No.  5  7.1 

I 


ELSIE  VENNER.— A  ROMANCE 

OF  DESTINY 


BY 

OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES 


THIRTY-FOURTH  EDITION 


BOSTON 

HOUGHTON,  MIFFLIN  AND  COMPANY 
New  York:  11  East  Seventeenth  Street 

188S 


I 


l 


Sintered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1861,  by 
Oliver  Wendell  Holmes, 

n  tba  C lurk’s  Offlce  of  the  District  Court  of  the  District  of  Massachusetts 


To  This 

SCHOOLMISTRESS 

SFHO  HAS  FURNISHED  SOME  OUTLINES  MADE  USE  OF  IN  THESE 

PAGES  AND  ELSEWHERE, 

Cf )i&  g>turi?  t3  HBctrtcaUtr 

by  her  oldest  scholar 


PREFACE. 


- • - 

This  tale  was  published  in  successive  parts 
in  the  44  Atlantic  Monthly,”  under  the  name  of 
14  The  Professor’s  Story,”  the  first  number  hav¬ 
ing  appeared  in  the  third  week  of  December 
1859.  The  critic  who  is  curious  in  coincidences 
must  refer  to  the  Magazine  for  the  date  of  pub¬ 
lication  of  the  Chapter  he  is  examining. 

In  calling  this  narrative  a  44  romance,”  the  Au¬ 
thor  wishes  to  make  sure  of  being  indulged  in 
the  common  privileges  of  the  poetic  license. 
Through  all  the  disguise  of  fiction  a  grave  sci¬ 
entific  doctrine  may  be  detected  lying  beneath 
Borne  of  the  delineations  of  character.  He  has 
used  this  doctrine  as  a  part  of  the  machinery 
of  his  story  without  pledging  his  absolute  be¬ 
lief  in  it  to  the  extent  to  which  it  is  asserted^ 
or  implied.  It  was  adopted  as  a  convenient  / 
medium  of  truth  rather  than  as  an  accepted 
scientific  conclusion.  The  reader  must  judge 


y 


PREFACE. 


for  himself  what  is  the  value  of  various  stories 
cited  from  old  authors.  He  must  decide  how 
much  of  what  has  been  told  he  can  accept 
either  as  having  actually  happened,  or  as  pos¬ 
sible  and  more  or  Jess  probable.  The  Author 
must  be  permitted,  however,  to  say  here,  in  his 
personal  character,  and  as  responsible  to  the  stu¬ 
dents  of  the  human  mind  and  body,  that  since 
this  story  has  been  in  progress  he  has  received 
the  most  startling  confirmation  of  the  possibility 
of  the  existence  of  a  character  like  that  which 
he  had  drawn  as  a  purely  imaginary  conception 
in  Elsie  Venner. 


Boston,  January,  1861. 


A  SECOND  PREFACE. 


— « - 

This  is  the  story  which  a  dear  old  lady,  my 
very  good  friend,  spoke  of  as  “  a  medicated 
novel,”  and  quite  properly  refused  to  read.  I  was 
always  pleased  with  her  discriminating  criticism. 
It  is  a  medicated  novel,  and  if  she  wished  to 
read  for  mere  amusement  and  helpful  recreation 
there  was  no  need  of  troubling  herself  with  a 
story  written  with  a  different  end  in  view. 

This  story  has  called  forth  so  many  curious  in¬ 
quiries  that  it  seems  worth  while  to  answer  the 
more  important  questions  which  have  occurred  to 
its  readers. 

In  the  first  place,  it  is  not  based  on  any  well- 
ascertained  physiological  fact.  There  are  old  fa¬ 
bles  about  patients  who  have  barked  like  dogs  or 
crowed  like  cocks,  after  being  bitten  or  wounded 
by  those  animals.  There  is  nothing  impossible 
in  the  idea  that  Romulus  and  Remus  may  have 
imbibed  wolfish  traits  of  character  from  the  wet 
nurse  the  legend  assigned  them,  but  the  legend  is 
not  sound  history,  and  the  supposition  is  nothing 
more  than  a  speculative  fancy.  Still,  there  is  a 


VI 


A  SECOND  PREFACE. 


limbo  of  curious  evidence  bearing  on  the  subject 
of  pre-natal  influences  sufficient  to  form  the  start¬ 
ing  point  of  an  imaginative  composition. 

The  real  aim  of  the  story  was  to  test  the  doc¬ 
trine  of  “  original  sin  ”  and  human  responsibility 
for  the  disordered  volition  coming  under  that 
technical  denomination.  Was  Elsie  Venner,  poi¬ 
soned  by  the  venom  of  a  crotalus  before  she  was 
born,  morally  responsible  for  the  “  volitional  ” 
aberrations,  which  translated  into  acts  become 
what  is  known  as  sin,  and,  it  may  be,  what  is 
punished  as  crime  ?  If,  on  presentation  of  the 
evidence,  she  becomes  by  the  verdict  of  the  human 
conscience  a  proper  object  of  divine  pity,  and  not 
of  divine  wrath,  as  a  subject  of  moral  poisoning, 
wherein  lies  the  difference  between  her  position 
at  the  bar  of  judgment,  human  or  divine,  and 
that  of  the  unfortunate  victim  who  received  a 
moral  poison  from  a  remote  ancestor  before  he 
drew  his  first  breath  ? 

It  might  be  supposed  that  the  character  of  El¬ 
sie  Venner  was  suggested  by  some  of  the  fabulous 
personages  of  classical  or  mediaeval  story.  I  re¬ 
member  that  a  French  critic  spoke  of  her  as  cette 
pauvre  Melusine.  I  ought  to  have  been  ashamed, 
perhaps,  but  I  had  not  the  slightest  idea  who 
Melusina  was  until  I  hunted  up  the  story,  and 
found  that  she  was  a  fairy,  who  for  some  offence 


A  SECOND  PREFACE. 


•  • 
Vll 

was  changed  every  Saturday  to  a  serpent  from  her 
waist  downward.  I  was  of  course  familiar  with 
Keats’s  Lamia,  another  imaginary  being,  the  sub¬ 
ject  of  magical  transformation  into  a  serpent. 
My  story  was  well  advanced  before  Hawthorne’s 
wonderful  “  Marble  Faun,”  which  might  be 
thought  to  have  furnished  me  with  the  hint  of  a 
mixed  nature,  — -  human,  with  an  alien  element,  — 
was  published  or  known  to  me.  So  that  my  poor 
heroine  found  her  origin,  not  in  fable  or  romance, 
but  in  a  physiological  conception,  fertilized  by  a 
theological  dogma. 

I  had  the  dissatisfaction  of  enjoying  from  a 
quiet  corner  a  well-meant  effort  to  dramatize  “  El¬ 
sie  Venner.”  Unfortunately,  a  physiological  ro¬ 
mance,  as  I  knew  beforehand,  is  hardly  adapted 
for  the  melodramatic  efforts  of  stage  representa¬ 
tion.  I  can  therefore  say,  with  perfect  truth,  that 
I  was  not  disappointed.  It  is  to  the  mind,  and 
not  to  the  senses,  that  such  a  story  must  appeal, 
and  all  attempts,  to  render  the  character  and 
events  objective  on  the  stage,  or  to  make  them 
real  by  artistic  illustrations,  are  almost  of  neces¬ 
sity  failures.  The  story  has  won  the  attention 
and  enjoyed  the  favor  of  a  limited  class  of  read¬ 
ers,  and  if  it  still  continues  to  interest  others  of 
the  same  tastes  and  habits  of  thought  I  can  ask 
nothing  more  of  it. 

January  23,  1883. 


CONTENTS 


♦ 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BRAHMIN  CASTE  OP  NEW  ENGLAND  . 

CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STUDENT  AND  HIS  CERTIFICATE 

CHAPTER  III. 

MR.  BERNARD  TRIES  HIS  HAND 

CHAPTER  IV. 


P»I* 

13 


20 

37 


THE  MOTH  FLIES  INTO  THE  CANDLE  ....  60 

CHAPTER  V. 

AN  OLD-FASHIONED  DESCRIPTIVE  CHAPTER  ...  74 

CHAPTER  YI. 

THE  SUNBEAM  AND  THE  SHADOW . 92 

CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  EVENT  OF  TnE  SEASON .  106 

CHAPTER  VIII. 

THE  MORNING  AFTER . .151 

CHAPTER  IX. 

tHE  DOCTOR  ORDERS  THE  BEST  SULKY  ^WITH  A  DIGRES¬ 
SION  ON  tc  HIRED  HELP”)  .  .  .  •  .170 


X 


CONTENTS 


CHAPTER  X. 

Pag* 

THE  DOCTOR  CALLS  ON  ELSIE  TENNER  .  .  .  .176 

CHAPTER  XI. 

cousin  riciiard’s  tisit .  .  ’  S3 

CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  AFOLLINEAN  INSTITUTE  (WITH  EXTRACTS  FROM  THE 


“REPORT  OF  THE  committee”) . 206 

CHAPTER  XIII. 

CURIOSITY . 222 

CHAPTER  XIV. 

FAMILY  SECRETS . 240 


CHAPTER  XV. 

PHYSIOLOGICAL  ", .  ,  .  253 

CHAPTER  XVI. 

EPISTOLARY . 272 

CHAPTER  XVII. 

OLD  SOrnY  CALLS  ON  THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR  .  .  289 

CHAPTER  XVIII. 

iHE  REVEREND  DOCTOR  CALLS  ON  BROTHER  FAIR- 

WEATHER  31' 

CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  SPIDER  ON  niS  THREAD . 322 

CHAPTER  XX. 


r&OM  WITHOUT  AND  FROM  WITHIN 


338 


CONTENTS 


XI 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

THE  WIDOW  ROWENS  GIVES  A  TEA-PARTY 

CHAPTER  XXII. 

WHY  DOCTORS  DIFFER . 

CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN 


•  • 


Page 

.  353 


.  387 


.  406 


CHAPTER  XXIY. 

ON  HIS  TRACKS . 423 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

ME  PERILOUS  HOUR  . 


•  •  *  • 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  NEWS  REACHES  THE  DUDLEY  MANSION 

CHAPTER  XXVII. 

A  SOUL  IN  DISTRESS . 

CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

THE  SECRET  IS  WHISPERED . 

CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  WHITE  ASn . 

CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  GOLDEN  CORD  IS  LOOSED  .... 

CHAPTER  XXXI. 

|IR.  SILAS  PECKHAM  RENDERS  HIS  ACCOUNT  . 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 


CONCLUSION 


•  I 


.  438 


.  469 


.  492 


.  505 


.  537 


.  550 


.  570 


,  59 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  BRAHMIN  CASTE  OF  NEW  ENGLAND. 

There  is  nothing  in  New  England  correspond* 
ing  at  all  to  the  feudal  aristocracies  of  the  Old 
World.  Whether  it  be  owing  to  the  stock  from 
which  we  were  derived,  or  to  the  practical  work¬ 
ing  of  our  institutions,  or  to  the  abrogation  of  the 
technical  “  law  of  honor,”  which  draws  a  sharp 
line  between  the  personally  responsible  class  of 
u  gentlemen  ”  and  the  unnamed  multitude  of 
those  who  are  not  expected  to  risk  their  lives  for 
an  abstraction,  —  whatever  be  the  cause,  we  have 
no  such  aristocracy  here  as  that  which  grew  up 
out  of  the  military  systems  of  the  Middle  Ages. 

What  we  mean  by  u  aristocracy  ”  is  merely  the 
richer  part  of  the  community,  that  live  in  the 
tallest  houses,  drive  real  carriages,  (not  “ker- 
tidges,”)  kid-glove  their  hands,  and  French-bon¬ 
net  their  ladies’  heads,  give  parties  where  the 
oersons  who  call  them  by  the  above  title  are  not 
nvited,  and  have  a  provokingly  easy  way  of 


u 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


dressing,  walking,  talking,  and  nodding  10  peo 
pie,  as  if  they  felt  entirely  at  home,  and  would 
not  be  embarrassed  in  the  least,  if  they  met  the 
Governor,  or  even  the  President  of  the  United 
States,  face  to  face.  Some  of  these  great  folks 
are  really  well-bred,  some  of  them  are  only  purse- 
proud  and  assuming,  —  but  they  form  a  class, 
and  are  named  as  above  in  the  common  speech. 

It  is  in  the  nature  of  large  fortunes  to  diminish 
rapidly,  when  subdivided  and  distributed.  A 
million  is  the  unit  of  wealth,  now  *nd  here  in 
America.  It  splits  into  four  handsome  proper¬ 
ties  ;  each  of  these  into  four  good  inheritances ; 
these,  again,  into  scanty  competences  for  four 
ancient  maidens,  —  with  whom  it  is  best  the  fam¬ 
ily  should  die  out,  unless  it  can  begin  again  as 
its  great-grandfather  did.  Now  a  million  is  a 
kind  of  golden  cheese,  which  represents  in  a  com¬ 
pendious  form  the  summer’s  growth  of  a  fat 
meadow  of  craft  or  commerce  ;  and  as  this  kind 
of  meadow  rarely  bears  more  than  one  crop,  it  is 
pretty  certain  that  sons  and  grandsons  will  not 
get  another  golden  cheese  out  of  it,  whether  they 
milk  the  same  cows  or  turn  in  new  ones.  In 
other  words,  the  millionocracy,  considered  in  a 
large  way,  is  not  at  all  an  affair  of  persons  and 
families,  but  a  perpetual  fact  of  money  with  a 
variable  human  element,  which  a  philosopher 
might  leave  out  of  consideration  without  falling 
into  serious  error.  Of  course,  this  trivial  and 
fugitive  fact  of  personal  wealth  does  not  create  a 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


15 


permanent  elass,  unless  some  special  means  are 
taken  to  arrest  the  process  of  disintegration  in 
the  third  generation.  This  is  so  rarely  done,  at 
least  successfully,  that  one  need  not  live  a  very 
long  life  to  see  most  of  the  rich  families  he  knew 
in  childhood  more  or  less  reduced,  and  the  mil¬ 
lions  shifted  into  the  hands  of  the  country-boys 
who  were  sweeping  stores  and  carrying  parcels 
when  the  now  decayed  gentry  were  driving  their 
chariots,  eating  their  venison  over  silver  chafing- 
dishes,  drinking  Madeira  chilled  in  embossed 
coolers,  wearing  their  hair  in  powder,  and  casing 
their  legs  in  long  boots  with  silken  tassels. 

There  is,  however,  in  New  England,  an  aris¬ 
tocracy,  if  you  choose  to  call  it  so,  which  has  a 
far  greater  character  of  permanence.  It  has 
grown  to  be  a  caste ,  —  not  in  any  odious  sense, — 
but,  by  the  repetition  of  the  same  influences,  gen¬ 
eration  after  generation,  it  has  acquired  a  distinct 
organization  and  physiognomy,  which  not  to 
recognize  is  mere  stupidity,  and  not  to  be  willing 
to  describe  would  show  a  distrust  of  the  good¬ 
nature  and  intelligence  of  our  readers,  who  like 
to  have  us  see  all  we  can  and  tell  all  we  see. 

If  you  will  look  carefully  at  any  class  of  stu¬ 
dents  in  one  of  our  colleges,  you  will  have  no 
difficulty  in  selecting  specimens  of  two  different 
aspects  of  youthful  manhood.  Of  cdurse  I  shall 
choose  extreme  cases  to  illustrate  the  contrast  be¬ 
tween  them.  In  the  first,  the  figure  is  perhaps 
obust,  but  often  otherwise.  —  inelegant,  partly 


16 


ELSIE  VEN-NEK. 


from  careless  attitudes,  partly  from  ill-dressing,  — 
the  face  is  uncouth  in  feature,  or  at  least  com« 
mon,  —  the  mouth  coarse  and  unformed,  —  the 
eye  unsympathetic,  even  if  bright,  —  the  move¬ 
ments  of  the  face  are  clumsy,  like  those  of  the 
limbs, —  the  voice  is  unmusical, —  and  the  enun¬ 
ciation  as  if  the  words  were  coarse  castings,  in¬ 
stead  of  fine  carvings.  The  youth  of  the  othei 
aspect  is  commonly  slender,  —  his  face  is  smooth, 
and  apt  to  be  pallid,  —  his  features  are  regular 
and  of  a  certain  delicacy,  —  his  eye  is  bright  and 
quick, —  his  lips  play  over  the  thought  he  utters  as 
a  pianist’s  fingers  dance  over  their  music,  —  and 
his  whole  air,  though  it  may  be  timid,  and  even 
awkward,  has  nothing  clownish.  If  you  are  a 
teacher,  you  know  what  to  expect  from  each  of 
these  young  men.  With  equal  willingness,  the 
first  will  be  slow  at  learning ;  the  second  will 
take  to  his  books  as  a  pointer  or  a  setter  to  his 
field-work. 

The  first  youth  is  the  common  country-boy, 
whose  race  has  been  bred  to  bodily  labor.  Na¬ 
ture  has  adapted  the  family  organization  to  the 
kind  of  life  it  has  lived.  The  hands  and  feet  by 
constant  use  have  got  more  than  their  share  of 
development,  —  the  organs  of  thought  and  ex¬ 
pression  less  than  their  share.  The  finer  instincts 
are  latent  and  must  be  developed.  A  youth  of 
this  kind  is  raw  material  in  its  first  stage  of  elal> 
uration.  You  must  not  expect  too  much  of  any 
*uch.  Many  of  them  have  force  of  will  anc 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


17 


character,  and  become  distinguished  in  practical 
life ;  but  very  few  of  them  ever  become  great 
scholars.  A  scholar  is,  in  a  large  proportion  of 
cases,  the  son  of  scholars  or  scholarly  persons. 

That  is  exactly  what  the  other  young  man  is. 
He  comes  of  the  Brahmin  caste  of  New  Bkg 
land.  This  is  the  harmless,  inoffensive,  untitled 
aristocracy  referred  to,  and  which  many  readers 
will  at  once  acknowledge.  There  are  races  of 
scholars  among  us,  in  which  aptitude  for  learn® 
ing,  and  all  these  marks  of  it  I  have  spoken 
of,  are  congenital  and  hereditary.  Their  names 
are  always  on  some  college  catalogue  or  other. 
They  break  out  every  generation  or  two  in  some 
learned  labor  which  calls  them  up  after  they 
seem  to  have  died  out.  At  last  some  newer 
name  takes  their  place,  it  may  be,  —  but  you 
inquire  a  little  and  you  find  it  is  the  blood  of 
the  Edwardses  or  the  Chauncys  or  the  Ellery s 
or  some  of  the  old  historic  scholars,  disguised 
under  the  altered  name  of  a  female  descendant. 

There  probably  is  not  an  experienced  instructor 
anywhere  in  our  Northern  States  who  will  not 
recognize  at  once  the  truth  of  this  general  dis¬ 
tinction.  But  the  reader  who  has  never  been  a 
teacher  will  very  probably  object,  that  some  of 
our  most  illustrious  public  men  have  come  direct 
from  the  homespun-clad  class  of  the  people,  — • 
and  he  may,  perhaps,  even  find  a  noted  scholai 
or  two  whose  parents  were  masters  of  the  Eng' 
Ush  alphabet,  but  of  no  other. 

2 


VOL.  I. 


18 


ELSIE  VEHNER. 


It  is  not  fair  to  pit  a  few  chosen  families 
against  the  great  multitude  of  those  who  are 
continually  working  their  way  up  into  the  intel¬ 
lectual  classes.  The  results  which  are  habitually 
reached  by  hereditary  training  are  occasionally 
brought  about  without  it.  There  are  natural 
filters  as  well  as  artificial  ones ;  and  though  the 
great  rivers  are  commonly  more  or  less  turbid, 
if  you  will  look  long  enough,  you  may  find  a 
spring  that  sparkles  as  no  water  does  which  drips 
through  your  apparatus  of  sands  and  sponges. 
So  there  are  families  which  refine  themselves  into 
intellectual  aptitude  without  having  had  much 
opportunity  for  intellectual  acquirements.  A  se¬ 
ries  of  felicitous  crosses  develops  an  improved 
strain  of  blood,  and  reaches  its  maximum  perfec¬ 
tion  at  last  in  the  large  uncombed  youth  who 
goes  to  college  and  startles  the  hereditary  class- 
leaders  by  striding  past  them  all.  That  is  Na¬ 
ture’s  republicanism  ;  thank  God  for  it,  but  do 
not  let  it  make  you  illogical.  The  race  of  the 
hereditary  scholar  has  exchanged  a  certain  por¬ 
tion  of  its  animal  vigor  for  its  new  instincts,  and 
it  is  hard  to  lead  men  without  a  good  deal  of  ani¬ 
mal  vigor.  The  scholar  who  comes  by  Nature’s 
special  grace  from  an  unworn  stock  of  broad- 
chested  sires  and  deep-bosomed  mothers  must 
always  overmatch  an  equal  intelligence  with  a 
compromised  and  lowered  vitality.  A  man’s 
breathing  and  digestive  apparatus  (one  is  tempt¬ 
ed  to  add  muscular)  are  just  as  important  to  hin» 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


19 


0H  the  floor  of  the  Senate  as  his  thinking  organs, 
You  broke  down  in  your  great  speech,  did  you  ? 
Yes,  your  grandfather  had  an  attack  of  dyspepsia 
in  *82,  after  working  too  hard  on  his  famous  Elec¬ 
tion  Sermon.  All  this  does  not  touch  the  main 
act :  our  scholars  come  chiefly  from  a  privileged 
order,  just  as  our  best  fruits  come  from  well- 
known  grafts,  —  though  now  and  then  a  seedling 
apple,  like  the  Northern  Spy,  or  a  seedling  pear, 
like  the  Seckel,  springs  from  a  nameless  ancestry 
and  grows  to  be  the  pride  of  all  the  gardens  in 
the  land. 

Let  me  introduce  you  to  a  young  man  who  b©> 
longs  to  the  Brahmin  caste  of  New  England. 


so 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  STUDENT  AND  HIS  CERTIFICATE. 

Bernard  C.  Langdon,  a  young  man  attending 
Medical  Lectures  at  the  school  connected  with 
one  of  our  principal  colleges,  remained  after  the 
Lecture  one  day  and  wished  to  speak  with  the 
Professor.  He  was  a  student  of  mark, — first 
favorite  of  his  year,  as  they  say  of  the  Derby 
colts.  There  are  in  every  class  half  a  dozen 
bright  faces  to  which  the  teacher  naturally  directa 
his  discourse,  and  by  the  intermediation  of  whose 
attention  he  seems  to  hold  that  of  the  mass  of 
listeners.  Among  these  some  one  is  pretty  sure 
to  take  the  lead,  by  virtue  of  a  personal  magnet¬ 
ism,  or  some  peculiarity  of  expression,  which 
places  the  face  in  quick  sympathetic  relations 
with  the  lecturer.  This  was  a  young  man  with 
such  a  face;  and  I  found,  —  for  you  have  guessed 
that  I  was  the  u  Professor  ”  above-mentioned, — 
that  when  there  was  anything  difficult  to  be  ex¬ 
plained,  or  when  I  was  bringing  out  some  favor- 
”te  illustration  of  a  nice  point,  (as,  for  instance 
when  I  compared  the  cell-growth,  by  which  Na¬ 
ture  builds  up  a  plant  or  an  animal,  to  the  glass- 


ELSIE  VLNNER 


21 


blower’s  similar  mode  of  beginning,  —  always 
with  a  hollow  sphere,  or  vesicle,  whatever  he  is 
going  to  make,)  I  naturally  looked  in  his  face 
and  gauged  my  success  by  its  expression. 

It  was  a  handsome  face,  —  a  little  too  pale, 
perhaps,  and  would  have  borne  something  more 
of  fulness  without  becoming  heavy.  I  put  the 
organization  to  which  it  belongs  in  Section  B  of 
Class  1  of  my  Anglo-American  Anthropology 
(unpublished).  The  jaw  in  this  section  is  but 
slightly  narrowed, — just  enough  to  make  the 
width  of  the  forehead  tell  more  decidedly.  The 
moustache  often  grows  vigorously,  but  the  whis¬ 
kers  are  thin.  The  skin  is  like  that  of  Jacob, 
rather  than  like  Esau’s.  One  string  of  the  ani¬ 
mal  nature  has  been  taken  away,  but  this  gives 
only  a  greater  predominance  to  the  intellectual 
chords.  To  see  just  how  the  vital  energy  has 
been  toned  down,  you  must  contrast  one  of  this 
section  with  a  specimen  of  Section  A  of  the 
same  class,  —  say,  for  instance,  one  of  the  old- 
fashioned,  full-whiskered,  red-faced,  roaring,  big 
Commodores  of  the  last  generation,  whom  you 
remember,  at  least  by  their  portraits,  in  rutiled 
shirts,  looking  as  hearty  as  butchers  and  as  plucky 
as  bull-terriers,  with  their  hair  combed  straight  up 
from  their  foreheads,  which  were  not  commonly 
very  high  or  broad.  The  special  form  of  physical 
life  I  have  been  describing  gives  you  a  right  to 
expect  more  delicate  perceptions  and  a  more 
reflective  nature  than  you  commonlv  find  in 


VI 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Bhaggy-throated  men,  clad  in  heavy  suits  of  mus¬ 
cles. 

The  student  lingered  in  the  lecture-room,  look¬ 
ing  all  the  time  as  if  he  wanted  to  say  something 
in  private,  and  waiting  for  two  or  three  others, 
who  were  still  hanging  about,  to  be  gone. 

Something  is  wrong !  —  I  said  to  myself,  when 
I  noticed  bis  expression.  —  Well,  Mr.  Langdon, 
—  I  said  to  him,  when  we  were  alone,  —  can  I  do 
anything  for  you  to-day  ? 

You  can,  Sir,  —  he  said.  —  I  am  going  to  leave 
the  class,  for  the  present,  and  keep  school. 

Why,  that’s  a  pity,  and  you  so  near  graduat¬ 
ing  !  You’d  better  stay  and  finish  this  course, 
and  take  your  degree  in  the  spring,  rather  than 
break  up  your  whole  plan  of  study. 

I  can’t  help  myself,  Sir,  —  the  young  man  an¬ 
swered.  —  There’s  trouble  at  home,  and  they  can¬ 
not  keep  me  here  as  they  have  done.  So  I  must 
look  out  for  myself  for  a  while.  It ’s  what  I ’ve 
done  before,  and  am  ready  to  do  again.  I  came 
to  ask  you  for  a  certificate  of  my  fitness  to  teach 
a  common  school,  or  a  high  school,  if  you  think 
I  am  up  to  that.  Are  you  willing  to  give  it  to 
me  ? 

Willing  ?  Yes,  to  be  sure,  —  but  I  don’t  want 
you  to  go.  Stay ;  we  ’ll  make  it  easy  for  you 
There ’s  a  fund  will  do  something  for  you,  per 
haps.  Then  you  can  take  both  the  annual  prizes 
if  you  like,  —  and  claim  them  in  money,  if  you 
Want  that  more  than  medals. 


23 


ELSIE  VENNER. 

I  have  thought  it  all  over, — he  answered,— 
mid  have  pretty  much  made  up  my  mind  to  go. 

A  perfectly  gentlemanly  young  man,  of  cour¬ 
teous  address  and  mild  utterance,  but  means  at 
least  as  much  as  he  says.  There  are  some  people 
whose  rhetoric  consists  of  a  slight  habitual  under¬ 
statement.  I  often  tell  Mrs.  Professor  that  one  of 
her  “  I  think  it’s  sos  ”  is  worth  the  Bible-oath  of  all 
the  rest  of  the  household  that  they  “know  it’s 
bo.”  When  you  find  a  person  a  little  better  than 
his  word,  a  little  more  liberal  than  his  promise,  a 
little  more  than  borne  out  in  his  statement  by  his 
facts,  a  little  larger  in  deed  than  in  speech,  you 
recognize  a  kind  of  eloquence  in  that  person’s 
utterance  not  laid  down  in  Blair  or  Campbell. 

This  was  a  proud  fellow,  self- trusting,  sensitive, 
with  family-recollections  that  made  him  unwill¬ 
ing  to  accept  the  kind  of  aid  which  many  stu¬ 
dents  would  have  thankfully  welcomed.  I  knew 
him  too  well  to  urge  him,  after  the  few  words 
which  implied  that  he  was  determined  to  go. 
Besides,  I  have  great  confidence  in  young  men 
who  believe  in  themselves,  and  are  accustomed  to 
rely  on  their  own  resources  from  an  early  period. 
When  a  resolute  young  fellow  steps  up  to  the 
great  bully,  the  World,  and  takes  him  boldly  by 
the  beard,  he  is  often  surprised  to  find  it  come  off 
in  his  hand,  and  that  it  was  only  tied  on  to  scare 
away  timid  adventurers.  I  have  seen  young  men 
jnore  than  once,  who  came  to  a  great  city  without 
a  single  friend,  support  themselves  and  pay  fol 


u 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


theii  education,  lay  up  money  in  a  few  years, 
grow  rich  enough  to  travel,  and  establish  them-  > 
selves  in  life,  without  ever  asking  a  dollar  of  any 
person  which  they  had  not  earned.  But  these  are 
exceptional  cases.  There  are  horse-tamers,  born 
bo,  as  we  all  know ;  there  are  woman-tamers  who 
bewitch  the  sex  as  the  pied  piper  bedeviled  the 
children  of  Hamelin  ;  and  there  are  world-tamers, 
who  can  make  any  community,  even  a  Yankee 
one,  get  down  and  let  them  jump  on  its  back  as 
easily  as  Mr.  Rarey  saddled  Cruiser. 

Whether  Langdon  was  of  this  sort  or  not  I 
could  not  say  positively ;  but  he  had  spirit,  and, 
as 'I  have  said,  a  family-pride  which  would  not 
let  him  be  dependent.  The  New  England  Brah¬ 
min  caste  often  gets  blended  with  connections  of 
political  influence  or  commercial  distinction.  It 
is  a  charming  thing  for  the  scholar,  when  his  for¬ 
tune  carries  him  in  this  way  into  some  of  the 
M  old  families”  who  have  fine  old  houses,  and  city- 
lots  that  have  risen  in  the  market,  and  names 
written  in  all  the  stock-books  of  all  the  dividend¬ 
paying  companies.  His  narrow  study  expands 
into  a  stately  library,  his  books  are  counted  by 
thousands  instead  of  hundreds,  and  his  favorites 
are  dressed  in  gilded  calf  in  place  of  plebeian 
sheepskin  or  its  pauper  substitutes  of  cloth  and 
paper. 

The  Reverend  Jedediah  Langdon,  grandfathei 
of  our  young  gentleman,  had  made  an  advan* 
tageous  alliance  of  this  kind.  Miss  Dorothea 


ELSIE  VENNEK.  25 

Wentworth  had  read  one  of  his  sermons  which 
had  been  printed  “  by  request,”  and  became 
deeply  interested  in  the  young  author,  whom 
she  had  never  seen.  Out  of  this  circumstance 
grew  a  correspondence,  an  interview,  a  dec¬ 
laration,  a  matrimonial  alliance,  and  a  family 
of  half  a  dozen  children.  Wentworth  Lang- 
don,  Esquire,  was  the  oldest  of  these,  and 
lived  in  the  old  family-mansion.  Unfortunately, 
that  principle  of  the  diminution  of  estates  by 
division,  to  which  I  have  referred,  rendered 
it  somewhat  difficult  to  maintain  the  estab¬ 
lishment  upon  the  fractional  income  which  the 
proprietor  received  from  his  share  of  the  prop¬ 
erty.  Wentworth  Langdon,  Esq.,  represented 
a  certain  intermediate  condition  of  life  not  at 
all  infrequent  in  our  old  families.  He  was  the 
connecting  link  between  the  generation  which 
lived  in  ease,  and  even  a  kind  of  state,  upon  its 
own  resources,  and  the  new  brood,  which  must 
live  mainly  by  its  wits  or  industry,  and  make  it¬ 
self  rich,  or  shabbily  subside  into  that  lower  stra¬ 
tum  known  to  social  geologists  by  a  deposit  of 
Kidderminster  carpets  and  the  peculiar  aspect 
pf  the  fossils  constituting  the  family  furniture 
and  wardrobe.  This  slack-water  period  of  a 
race,  which  comes  before  the  rapid  ebb  of  its 
prosperity,  is  familiar  to  all  who  live  in  cities. 
There  are  no  more  quiet,  inoffensive  people  than 
these  children  of  rich  families,  just  above  the  ne- 
tessity  of  active  employment,  yet  not  in  a  conch* 


ELSIE  VENNER 


B6 

tion  to  place  their  own  children  advantageously 
if  they  happen  to  have  families.  Many  of  them 
are  content  to  live  unmarried.  Some  mend  theii 
broken  fortunes  by  prudent  alliances,  and  some 
leave  a  numerous  progeny  to  pass  into  the  obscu¬ 
rity  from  which  their  ancestors  emerged ;  so  that 
you  may  see  on  handcarts  and  cobblers’  stalls 
names  which,  a  few  generations  back,  were  upon 
parchments  with  broad  seals,  and  tombstones  with 
armorial  bearings. 

In  a  large  city,  this  class  of  citizens  is  familiar 
to  us  in  the  streets.  They  are  very  courteous  in 
their  salutations  ;  they  have  time  enough  to  bow 
and  take  their  hats  off,  —  which,  of  course,  no 
business-man  can  afford  to  do.  Their  beavers  are 
smoothly  brushed,  and  their  boots  well  polished; 
all  their  appointments  are  tidy  ;  they  look  the  re¬ 
spectable  walking  gentleman  to  perfection.  They 
are  prone  to  habits, — they  frequent  reading-rooms, 
insurance-offices,  —  they  walk  the  same  streets  at 
the  same  hours, —  so  that  one  becomes  familiar 
with  their  faces  and  persons,  as  a  part  of  the 
street-furniture. 

There  is  one  curious  circumstance,  that  all  city- 
people  must  have  noticed,  which  is  often  illus 
trated  in  our  experience  of  the  slack-water  gentry 
We  shall  know  a  certain  person  by  his  looks,  fa 
miliarly,  for  years,  but  never  have  learned  his 
name.  About  this  person  we  shall  have  accumu 
iated  no  little  circumstantial  knowledge  ; —  thus 
fcis  face,  figure,  gait,  his  mode  of  dressing,  of  sa 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


27 


Luting,  perhaps  even  of  speaking,  may  be  familial 
to  us ;  yet  wlio  he  is  we  know  not.  In  another 
department  of  our  consciousness,  there  is  a  very 
familiar  name ,  which  we  have  never  found  the  per¬ 
son  to  match.  We  have  heard  it  so  often,  that  it 
has  idealized  itself,  and  become  one  of  that  muL 
titude  of  permanent  shapes  which  walk  the  cham 
bers  of  the  brain  in  velvet  slippers  in  the  company 
of  Falstaff  and  Hamlet  and  General  Washington 
and  Mr.  Pickwick.  Sometimes  the  person  dies, 
but  the  name  lives  on  indefinitely.  But  now  and 
then  it  happens,  perhaps  after  years  of  this  inde¬ 
pendent  existence  of  the  name  and  its  shadowy 
image  in  the  brain,  on  the  one  part,  and  the  per¬ 
son  and  all  its  real  attributes,  as  we  see  them 
daily,  on  the  other,  that  some  accident  reveals 
their  relation,  and  we  find  the  name  we  have  car¬ 
ried  so  long  in  our  memory  belongs  to  the  person 
we  have  known  so  long  as  a  fellow-citizen.  Now 
the  slack-water  gentry  are  among  the  persons 
most  likely  to  be  the  subjects  of  this  curious  di¬ 
vorce  of  title  and  reality, — for  the  reason,  that, 
playing  no  important  part  in  the  community,  there 
is  nothing  to  tie  the  floating  name  to  the  actual 
individual,  as  is  the  case  with  the  men  who  belong 
m  any  way  to  the  public,  while  yet  their  names 
have  a  certain  historical  currency,  and  we  cannot 
help  meeting  them,  either  in  their  haunts,  or  going 
to  and  from  them. 

To  ihis  class  belonged  Wentworth  Langdon, 
Esq.  He  had  been  “  dead-headed  ”  into  the  world 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


88 

some  fifty  years  ago,  and  had  sat  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets  staring  at  the  show  ever  since.  ] 
shall  not  tell  you,  for  reasons  before  hinted,  the 
whole  name  of  the  p  ace  in  which  he  lived.  I 
will  only  point  you  in  the  right  direction,  by  say 
ing  that  there  are  three  towns  lying  in  a  line  with 
each  other,  as  you  go  “  down  East,”  each  of  them 
with  a  Port  in  its  name,  and  each  of  them  having 
a  peculiar  interest  which  gives  it  individuality,  in 
addition  to  the  Oriental  character  they  have  in 
common.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  these  towns 
are  Newburyport,  Portsmouth,  and  Portland.  The 
Oriental  character  they  have  in  common  consists 
in  their  large,  square,  palatial  mansions,  with  sun¬ 
ny  gardens  round  them.  The  two  first  have  seen 
better  days.  They  are  in  perfect  harmony  with 
the  condition  of  weakened,  but  not  impoverished, 
gentility.  Each  of  them  is  a  “  paradise  of  demi- 
fortunes.”  Each  of  them  is  of  that  intermedi¬ 
ate  size  between  a  village  and  a  city  which 
any  place  has  outgrown  when  the  presence  of  a 
well-dressed  stranger  walking  up  and  down  the 
main  street  ceases  to  be  a  matter  of  public  curi¬ 
osity  and  private  speculation,  as  frequently  hap 
pens,  during  the  busier  months  of  the  year,  i  IV 
considerable  commercial  centres  like  Salem 
They  both  have  grand  old  recollections  to  fall 
back  upon,  —  times  when  they  looked  forwaro 
to  commercial  greatness,  and  when  the  portly 
gentlemen  in  cocked  hats,  who  built  their  now 
decaying  wharves  and  sent  out  their  ships  all  ovej*' 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


29 


the  world,  dreamed  that  their  fast-growing  port 
was  to  be  the  Tyre  or  the  Carthage  of  the  rich 
British  Colony.  Great  houses,  like  that  once 
lived  in  by  Lord  Timothy  Dexter,  in  Newbury- 
port,  remain  as  evidence  of  the  fortunes  amassed 
in  these  places  of  old.  Other  mansions  —  like 
the  Rockingham  House  in  Portsmouth  (look  at 
the  white  horse’s  tail  before  you  mount  the  broad 
staircase)  show  that  there  was  not  only  wealth, 
but  style  and  state,  in  these  quiet  old  towns  dur¬ 
ing  the  last  century.  It  is  not  with  any  thought 
of  pity  or  depreciation  that  we  speak  of  them  as 
in  a  certain  sense  decayed  towns  ;  they  did  not 
fulfil  their  early  promise  of  expansion,  but  they 
remain  incomparably  the  most  interesting  places 
of  their  size  in  any  of  the  three  northernmost 
New  England  States.  They  have  even  now  pros¬ 
perity  enough  to  keep  them  in  good  condition,  and 
offer  the  most  attractive  residences  for  quiet  fami¬ 
lies,  which,  if  they  had  been  English,  would  have 
lived  in  a  palazzo  at  Genoa  or  Pisa,  or  some  other 
Continental  Newburyport  or  Portsmouth. 

As  for  the  last  of  the  three  Ports,  or  Portland, 
[jb  is  getting  too  prosperous  to  be  as  attractive 
as  its  less  northerly  neighbors.  Meant  for  a  fine 
old  town,  to  ripen  like  a  Cheshire  cheese  within 
its  walls  of  ancient  rind,  burrowed  by  crooked 
alleys  and  mottled  with  venerable  mould,  it 
Beems  likely  to  sacrifice  its  mellow  future  to  a 
vulgar  material  prosperity.  Still  it  remains  in¬ 
fested  with  many  of  its  old  charms,  as  yet,  and 


50 


ELSIE  VENNEE. 

will  forfeit  its  place  among  this  admirable  trio 
only  when  it  gets  a  hotel  with  unequivocal 
marks  of  having  been  built  and  organized  in 
the  present  century. 

- It  was  one  of  the  old  square  palaces  of 

the  North,  in  which  Bernard  Langdon,  the  son 
of  Wentworth,  was  born.  If  he  had  had  the 
tuck  to  be  an  only  child,  he  might  have  lived 
as  his  father  had  done,  letting  his  meagre  com¬ 
petence  smoulder  on  almost  without  consuming, 
like  the  fuel  in  an  air-tight  stove.  But  after 
Master  Bernard  came  Miss  Dorothea  Elizabeth 
Wentworth  Langdon,  and  then  Master  William 
Pepperek  Langdon,  and  others,  equally  well 
named,  —  a  string  of  them,  looking,  when  they 
stood  in  a  row  in  prayer-time,  as  if  they  would 
fit  a  set  of  Pandean  pipes,  of  from  three  feet 
upward  in  dimensions.  The  door  of  the  air¬ 
tight  stove  has  to  be  opened,  under  such  circum¬ 
stances,  you  may  well  suppose !  So  it  happened 
that  our  young  man  had  been  obliged,  from  an 
early  period,  to  do  something  to  support  himself, 
and  found  himself  stopped  short  in  his  studies 
by  the  inability  of  the  good  people  at  home  to 
turnish  him  the  present  means  of  support  as  a 
student. 

You  will  understand  now  why  the  young  man 
wanted  me  to  give  him  a  certificate  of  his  fit¬ 
ness  to  teach,  and  why  I  did  not  choose  to  urga 
him  to  accept  the  aid  which  a  meek  country 
boy  from  a  family  without  ante-Revolutionan 


ELSIE  VENNEK 


o  i 

o\ 

lecollections  would  have  thankfully  received.  Go 
he  must,  —  that  was  plain  enough.  He  would 
hot  be  content  otherwise.  He  was  net,  how* 
ever,  to  give  up  his  studies  ;  and  as  it  is  cus¬ 
tomary  to  allow  half-time  to  students  engaged 
in  school-keeping,  —  that  is,  to  count  a  year,  so 
employed,  if  the  student  also  keep  on  with  his 
professional  studies,  as  equal  to  six  months  of 
the  three  years  he  is  expected  to  be  under  an 
instructor  before  applying  for  his  degree,  —  he 
would  not  necessarily  lose  more  than  a  few 
months  of  time.  He  had  a  small  library  of  pro¬ 
fessional  books,  which  he  could  take  with  him. 

So  he  left  my  teaching  and  that  of  my  estima¬ 
ble  colleagues,  carrying  with  him  my  certificatej 
that  Mr.  Bernard  C.  Langdon  was  a  young  gen¬ 
tleman  of  excellent  moral  character,  of  high  in¬ 
telligence  and  good  education,  and  that  his  ser¬ 
vices  would  be  of  great  value  in  any  school, 
academy,  or  other  institution,  where  young  per¬ 
sons  of  either  sex  were  to  be  instructed. 

I  confess,  that  expression,  “  either  sex,”  ran  a 
little  thick,  as  I  may  say,  from  my  pen.  For, 
although  the  young  man  bore  a  very  fair  char¬ 
acter,  and  there  was  no  special  cause  for  doubt¬ 
ing  his  discretion,  I  considered  him  altogether 
too  good-looking,  in  the  first  place,  to  be  let  loose 
5n  a  room-full  of  young  girls.  I  didn’t  want  him 
to  fall  in  iove  just  then,  —  and  if  half  a  dozen 
girls  fell  in  love  with  him,  as  they  most  assuredly 
would,  if  brought  into  too  near  relations  with 


82  ELSIE  VENNER. 

him,  why;  there  was  no  telling  what  gratitude 
and  natural  sensibility  might  bring  about. 

Certificates  are,  for  the  most  part,  like  ostrich* 
eggs  ;  the  giver  never  knows  what  is  hatched  out 

them.  But  once  in  a  thousand  times  they  act 
as  curses  are  said  to, — come  home  to  roost.  Give 
them  often  enough,  until  it  gets  to  be  a  mechanical 
business,  and,  some  day  or  other,  you  will  get 
caught  warranting  somebody’s  ice  not  to  melt  in 
any  climate,  or  somebody’s  razors  to  be  safe  in 
the  hands  of  the  youngest  children. 

I  had  an  uneasy  feeling,  after  giving  this  cer¬ 
tificate.  It  might  be  all  right  enough  ;  but  if  it 
happened  to  end  badly,  I  should  always  reproach 
myself.  There  was  a  chance,  certainly,  that  it 
would  lead  him  or  others  into  danger  or  wretch¬ 
edness.  Any  one  who  looked  at  this  young  man 
could  not  fail  to  see  that  he  was  capable  of 
fascinating  and  being  fascinated.  Those  large, 
dark  eyes  of  his  would  sink  into  the  white  soul 
of  a  young  girl  as  the  black  cloth  sunk  into  the 
Bnow  in  Franklin’s  famous  experiment.  Or,  on 
the  other  hand,  if  the  rays  of  a  passionate  nature 
should  ever  be  concentrated  on  them,  they  would 
be  absorbed  into  the  very  depths  of  his  nature 
and  then  his  blood  would  turn  to  flame  and  burn 
his  life  out  of  him,  until  his  cheeks  grew  as  white 
as  the  ashes  that  cover  a  burning:  coal. 

O 

I  wish  I  had  not  said  cither  sex  in  my  certificate 
An  academy  for  young  gentlemen,  now;  thaT 
sounds  cool  and  unimaginative,  A  boys’  school 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


S3 


that  would  be  a  very  good  place  for  him some 
of  them  are  pretty  rough,  but  there  is  nerve 
enough  in  that  old  Wentworth  strain  of  blood  ; 
he  can  give  any  country  fellow,  of  the  common 
stock,  twenty  pounds,  and  hit  him  out  of  time  in 
ten  minutes.  But  to  send  such  a  young  fellow 
as  that  out  a  girl’s-nesting !  to  give  this  falcon  a 
free  pass  into  all  the  dove-cotes !  I  was  a  fool, 
—  that’s  all. 

I  brooded  over  the  mischief  which  might  come 
out  of  these  two  words  until  it  seemed  to  me 
that  they  were  charged  with  destiny.  I  could 
hardly  sleep  for  thinking  what  a  train  I  might 
have  been  laying,  which  might  take  a  spark  any 
day,  and  blow  up  nobody  knows  whose  peace  or 
prospects.  What  I  dreaded  most  was  one  of 
those  miserable  matrimonial  misalliances  where 
a  young  fellow  who  does  not  know  himself  as 
yet  flings  his  magnificent  future  into  the  checked 
apron-lap  of  some  fresh-faced,  half-bred  country- 
girl,  no  more  fit  to  be  mated  with  him  than  hei 
father’s  horse  to  go  in  double  harness  with  Flora 
Temple.  To  think  of  the  eagle’s  wings  being 
clipped  so  that  he  shall  never  lift  himself  over  the 
farm-yard  fence  !  Such  things  happen,  and  al¬ 
ways  must, —  because,  as  one  of  us  said  awhile 
ago,  a  man  always  loves  a  woman,  and  a  woman 
a  man,  unless  some  good  reason  exists  to  the 
contrary.  You  think  yourself  a  very  fastidious 
young  man,  my  friend  ;  but  there  are  probably  at 
least  five  thousand  young  women  in  tnese  United 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


84 

States,  any  one  of  whom  you  would  certainty 
marry,  if  you  were  tnrown  much  into  her  com¬ 
pany,  and  nobody  more  attractive  were  near,  and 
she  had  no  objection.  And  you,  my  dear  young 
lady,  justly  pride  yourself  on  your  discerning  del¬ 
icacy  ;  but  if  I  should  say  that  there  are  twenty 
thousand  young  men,  any  one  of  whom,  if  he 
offered  his  hand  and  heart  under  favorable  cir¬ 
cumstances,  vou  would 

“  First  endure,  then  pity,  then  embrace,” 

1  should  be  much  more  imprudent  than  I  mean 
to  be,  and  you  would,  no  doubt,  throw  down  a 
story  in  which  I  hope  to  interest  you. 

I  had  settled  it  in  my  mind  that  this  young 
fellow  had  a  career  marked  out  for  him.  He 
should  begin  in  the  natural  way,  by  taking  care 
of  poor  patients  in  one  of  the  public  charities, 
and  work  his  way  up  to  a  better  kind  of  practice, 
—  better,  that  is,  in  the  vulgar,  worldly  sense. 
The  great  and  good  Boerhaave  used  to  say,  as 
l  remember  very  well,  that  the  poor  were  his  best 
patients ;  for  God  was  their  paymaster.  But 
everybody  is  not  as  patient  as  Boerhaave,  nor  as 
deserving  ;  so  that  the  rich,  though  not,  perhaps, 
the  best  patients,  are  good  enough  for  common 
practitioners.  I  suppose  Boerhaave  put  up  with 
them  when  he  could  not  get  poor  ones,  as  he  left 
his  daughter  two  millions  of  florins  when  he  died 

Now  if  this  young  man  once  got  into  the  toidi 
ttreets ,  he  would  sweep  them  clear  of  his  rivals  o 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


35 


♦  he  same  standing;  and  as  I  was  getting  indif¬ 
ferent  to  business,  and  old  Dr.  Kilham  was  grow¬ 
ing  caieless,  and  had  once  or  twice  prescribed 
morphine  when  he  meant  quinine,  there  would 
soon  be  an  opening  into  the  Doctor’s  Paradise, 
—  the  sueets  with  only  one  side  to  them .  Then  I 
would  have  him  strike  a  bold  stroke,  —  set  up  a 
nice  little  coach,  and  be  driven  round  like  a  first- 
class  London  doctor,  instead  of  coasting  about 
in  a  shabby  one-horse  concern  and  casting  anchor 
opposite  his  patients’  doors  like  a  Cape- Ann  fish¬ 
ing-smack.  By  the  time  he  was  thirty,  he  would 
have  knocked  the  social  pawns  out  of  his  way, 
and  be  ready  to  challenge  a  wife  from  the  row  of 
great  pieces  in  the  background.  I  would  not  have 
a  man  marry  above  his  level,  so  as  to  become  the 
appendage  of  a  powerful  family-connection  ;  but 
I  would  not  have  him  marry  until  he  knew  his 
level,  —  that  is,  again,  looking  at  the  matter  in  a 
purely  worldly  point  of  view,  and  not  taking  the 
sentiments  at  all  into  consideration.  But  remem¬ 
ber,  that  a  young  man,  using  large  endowments 
wisely  and  fortunately,  may  put  himself  on  a 
level  with  the  highest  in  the  land  in  ten  brilliant 
years  of  spirited,  unflagging  labor.  And  to  stand 
it  the  very  top  of  your  calling  in  a  great  city  is 
something  in  itself,  —  that  is,  if  you  like  money 
and  influence,  and  a  seat  on  the  platform  at  pub¬ 
lic  lectures,  and  gratuitous  tickets  to  all  sorts  ot 
places  where  you  don’t  want  to  go,  and,  what 
*B  a  good  deal  better  than  any  of  these  things,  a 


I  ’ 

■!  .'V/A 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


36 

sense  of  power,  limited,  it  may  be,  but  absolute 
in  its  range,  so  that  all  the  Caesars  and  Napoleons 
would  have  to  stand  aside,  if  they  came  between 
you  and  the  exercise  of  your  special  vocation. 

That  is  what  I  thought  this  young  fellow  might 
have  come  to ;  and  now  I  have  let  him  go  off  into 
the  country  with  my  certificate,  that  he  is  fit  to 
teach  in  a  school  for  either  sex !  Ten  to  one  he 
will  run  like  a  moth  into  a  candle,  right  into  one 
of  those  girls’-nests,  and  get  tangled  up  in  some 
sentimental  folly  or  other,  and  there  will  be  the 
end  of  him.  Oh,  yes !  country  doctor,  —  half  a 
dollar  a  visit,  — drive,  drive,  drive  all  day,  —  get 
up  at  night  and  harness  your  own  horse,  —  drive 
again  ten  miles  in  a  snow-storm,  —  shake  powders 
out  of  two  phials,  (pulv.  glycyrrhiz .,  pulv.  gum . 
acaG.  ad  partes  equates ,)  — drive  back  again,  if  you 
don’t  happen  to  get  stuck  in  a  drift,  —  no  home, 
no  peace,  no  continuous  meals,  no  unbroken 
sleep,  no  Sunday,  no  holiday,  no  social  inter¬ 
course,  but  one  eternal  jog,  jog,  jog,  in  a  sulky, 
until  you  feel  like  the  mummy  of  an  Indian  who 
had  been  buried  in  the  sitting  posture,  and  was 
dug  up  a  hundred  years  afterwards !  Why  didn’t 
[  warn  him  about  love  and  all  that  nonsense  ? 
Why  didn’t  I  tell  him  he  had  nothing  to  do  with 
ic,  yet  awhile  ?  Why  didn’t  I  hold  up  to  him 
those  awful  examples  I  could  have  cited,  where 
poor  young  fellows  who  could  just  keep  them 
selves  afloat  have  hung  a  matrimonial  millstone 
*ound  their  necks,  taking  it  for  a  life-preserver  ? 

All  this  of  two  words  in  a  certificate! 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


87 


CHAPTER  III. 

MR.  BERNARD  TRIES  HIS  HAND. 

Whether  the  Student  advertised  for  a  school, 
or  whether  he  fell  in  with  the  advertisement  of  a 
school-committee,  is  not  certain.  At  any  rate,  it 
was  not  long  before  he  found  himself  the  head  of 
a  large  district,  or,  as  it  was  called  by  the  inhab¬ 
itants,  “  deestric  ”  school,  in  the  flourishing  inland 
village  of  Pequawkett,  or,  as  it  is  commonly 
spelt,  Pigwacket  Centre.  The  natives  of  this 
place  would  be  surprised,  if  they  should  hear 
that  any  of  the  readers  of  a  work  published  in 
Boston  were  unacquainted  with  so  remarkable  a 
locality.  As,  however,  some  copies  of  it  may  be 
read  at  a  distance  from  this  distinguished  me¬ 
tropolis,  it  may  be  well  to  give  a  few  particulars 
respecting  the  place,  taken  from  the  Universal 
Gazetteer. 

“  Pigwacket,  sometimes  spelt  Pequawkett.  A  post-village 

ind  township  in - Co.,  State  of - ,  situated  in  a  fine  agri- 

tultural  region,  2  thriving  villages,  Pigwacket  Centre  and 
Smithville,  3  churches,  several  school-houses,  and  many  hand- 
tome  private  residences.  Mink  River  runs  through  the  town, 
navigable  for  small  boats  after  heavy  rains.  Muddy  Pond  at 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


‘  RS 

N.  E.  section,  well  stocked  with  horn  pouts,  eels,  and  shmera 
Products,  beef,  pork,  butter,  cheese.  Manufactures,  shoe-pegs, 
clothes-pins,  and  tin-ware.  Pop.  1373.” 

The  reader  may  think  there  is  nothing  very 
remarkable  implied  in  this  description.  If,  how¬ 
ever,  he  had  read  the  town-history,  by  the  Rev 
Jabez  Grubb,  he  would  have  learned,  that,  like 
the  celebrated  Little  Pedlington,  it  was  distin¬ 
guished  by  many  very  remarkable  advantages. 
Thus : — 

“  The  situation  of  Pigwacket  is  eminently  beautiful,  looking 
down  the  lovely  valley  of  Mink  River,  a  tributary  of  the  Mus¬ 
quash.  The  air  is  salubrious,  and  many  of  the  inhabitants 
have  attained  great  age,  several  having  passed  the  allotted 
period  of  ‘  three-score  years  and  ten  *  before  succumbing  to 
any  of  the  various  ‘  ills  that  flesh  is  heir  to.*  Widow  Comfort 
Leevins  died  in  1836,  iEt.  LXXXVII.  years.  Venus,  an 
African,  died  in  1841,  supposed  to  be  C.  years  old.  The  peo-*: 
pie  are  distinguished  for  intelligence,  as  has  been  frequently 
remarked  by  eminent  lyceum-lecturers,  who  have  invariably 
spoken  in  the  highest  terms  of  a  Pigwacket  audience.  There 
is  a  public  library,  containing  nearly  a  hundred  volumes,  free 
to  all  subscribers.  The  preached  word  is  well  attended,  there 
is  a  flourishing  temperance  society,  and  the  schools  are  excel¬ 
lent.  It  is  a  residence  admirably  adapted  to  refined  families 
who  relish  the  beauties  of  Nature  and  the  charms  of  society. 
The  Honorable  John  Smith,  formerly  a  member  of  the  State 
Senate,  was  a  native  of  this  town.” 

That  is  the  way  they  all  talk.  After  all,  it  is 
probably  pretty  much  like  other  inland  New  Eng¬ 
land  towns  in  point  of  “  salubrity ,” — that  is,  givei 
people  their  choice  of  dysentery  or  fever  every  au 


ELSIE  VENNER 


39 


tumn,  with  a  season-ticket  for  consumption,  good 
all  the  year  round.  And  so  of  the  other  pretences 
u Pigwacket  audience,’’  forsooth!  Was  there  ever 
an  audience  anywhere,  though  there  wasn’t  a  pah 
of  eyes  in  it  brighter  than  pickled  oysters,  that 
didn’t  think  it  was  <£  distinguished  for  intelli 
gence  ”  ?  —  “  The  preached  word  ”  !  That  mean? 
the  Rev.  Jabez  Grubb’s  sermons.  “  Temperance 
Bociety  ” !  “  Excellent  schools  ”  !  Ah,  that  is  just 
what  we  were  talking  about. 

The  truth  was,  that  District  No.  1,  Pigwacket 
Centre,  had  had  a  good  deal  of  trouble  of  late 
with  its  schoolmasters.  The  committee  had  done 
their  best,  but  there  were  a  number  of  well-grown 
and  pretty  rough  young  fellows  who  had  got  the 
upperhand  of  the  masters,  and  meant  to  keep  it. 
Two  dynasties  had  fallen  before  the  uprising  of 
this  fierce  democracy.  This  was  a  thing  that 
used  to  be  not  very  uncommon ;  but  in  so  “  in¬ 
telligent  ”  a  community  as  that  of  Pigwacket 
Centre,  in  an  era  of  public  libraries  and  lyceum- 
lectures,  it  was  portentous  and  alarming. 

The  rebellion  began  under  the  ferule  of  Mas* 
ter  Weeks,  a  slender  youth  from  a  country  col¬ 
lege,  under-fed,  thin-blooded,  sloping-shouldered, 
knock-kneed,  straight-haired,  weak-bearded,  pale¬ 
eyed,  wide-pupilled,  half-colored;  a  common  type 
enough  in  in-door  races,  not  rich  enough  to  pick 
and  choose  in  their  alliances.  Nature  kills  off  a 
good  many  of  this  sort  in  the  first  teething- time, 
t  few  in  later  childhood,  a  good  many  again  in 


to 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


early  adolescence ;  but  every  now  and  then  one 
runs  the  gauntlet  of  her  various  diseases,  or  rathei 
forms  of  one  disease,  and  grows  up,  as  Mastei 
Weeks  had  done. 

It  was  a  very  foolish  thing  for  him  to  try  to  in¬ 
dict  personal  punishment  on  such  a  lusty  young 
fellow  as  Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  one  of  the  “  hard¬ 
est  customers  ”  in  the  way  of  a  rough-and-tumble 
fight  that  there  were  anywhere  round.  No  doubt 
he  had  been  insolent,  but  it  would  have  been  bet¬ 
ter  to  overlook  it.  It  pains  me  to  report  the  events 
which  took  place  when  the  master  made  his  rash 
attempt  to  maintain  his  authority.  Abner  Briggs, 
Junior,  was  a  great,  hulking  fellow,  who  had  been 
bred  to  butchering,  but  urged  by  his  parents  to 
attend  school,  in  order  to  learn  the  elegant  accom¬ 
plishments  of  reading  and  wilting,  in  which  he 
was  sadly  deficient.  He  was  in  the  habit  of  talk¬ 
ing  and  laughing  pretty  loud  in  school-hours,  of 
throwing  wads  of  paper  reduced  to  a  pulp  by  a 
natural  and  easy  process,  of  occasional  insolence 
and  general  negligence.  One  of  the  soft,  but  un¬ 
pleasant  missiles  just  alluded  to,  flew  by  the  mas¬ 
ter’s  head  one  morning,  and  flattened  itself  against 
the  wall,  where  it  adhered  in  the  form  of  a  convex 
mass  in  alto  rilievo.  The  master  looked  round 
and  saw  the  young  butcher’s  arm  in  an  attitude 
which  pointed  to  it  unequivocally  as  the  source 
&om  which  the  projectile  had  taken  its  flight. 

Master  Weeks  turned  pale.  He  must  “lick’ 
Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  or  abdicate.  So  he  deter 
mined  to  lick  Abner  Briggs,  Junior. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


41 


“  Come  here,  Sir !  ”  he  said ;  “  you  have  in¬ 
sulted  me  and  outraged  the  decency  of  the  school¬ 
room  often  enough  !  Hold  out  your  hand  !  ” 

The  young  fellow  grinned  and  held  it  out 
The  master  struck  at  it  with  his  black  ruler,  with 
will  in  the  blow  and  a  snapping  of  the  eyes,  as 
much  as  to  say  that  he  meant  to  make  him  smart 
this  time.  The  young  fellow  pulled  his  hand 
back  as  the  ruler  came  down,  and  the  master  hit 
himself  a  vicious  blow  with  it  on  the  right  knee, 
There  are  things  no  man  can  stand.  The  master 
caught  the  refractory  youth  by  the  collar  and 
began  shaking  him,  or  rather  shaking  himself 
against  him. 

“  Le’  go  o’  that  are  coat,  naow,”  said  the  fellow, 
u  or  I  ’ll  make  ye  !  ’T  ’ll  take  tew  on  ye  t’  handle 
me,  I  tell  ye,  ’n’  then  ye  caant  dew  it! ”  —  and  th^ 
young  pupil  returned  the  master’s  attention  b^ 
catching  hold  of  his  collar. 

When  it  comes  to  that,  the  best  man ,  not  ex¬ 
actly  in  the  moral  sense,  but  rather  in  the  mate¬ 
rial,  and  more  especially  the  muscular  point  of 
view,  is  very  apt  to  have  the  best  of  it,  irrespec" 
lively  of  the  merits  of  the  case.  So  it  happened 
now.  The  unfortunate  schoolmaster  found  him* 
self  taking  the  measure  of  the  sanded  floor,  amidst 
the  general  uproar  of  the  school.  From  that  mo« 
sncnt  his  ferule  was  broken,  and  the  school-com¬ 
mittee  very  soon  had  a  vacancy  to  fill. 

Master  Pigeon,  the  successor  of  Master  Weeks, 
Vas  of  better  stature,  but  loosely  put  together 


12 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


and  slender-limbed.  A  dreadfully  nervous  kind 
of  man  he  was,  walked  on  tiptoe,  started  at  sud¬ 
den  noises,  was  distressed  when  he  heard  a  whis¬ 
per,  had  a  quick,  suspicious  look,  and  was  always 
Baying,  u  Hush !  ”  and  putting  his  hands  to  hia 
ears.  The  boys  were  not  long  in  finding  ou'b 
this  nervous  weakness,  of  course.  In  less  than 
a  week  a  regular  system  of  torments  was  in¬ 
augurated,  full  of  the  most  diabolical  malice  and 
ingenuity.  The  exercises  of  the  conspirators 
varied  from  day  to  day,  but  consisted  mainly  of 
foot-scraping,  solos  on  the  slate-pencil,  (making  it 
screech  on  the  slate,)  falling  of  heavy  books,  at¬ 
tacks  of  coughing,  banging  of  desk-lids,  boot- 
creaking,  with  sounds  as  of  drawing  a  cork  from 
time  to  time,  followed  by  suppressed  chuckles. 

Master  Pigeon  grew  worse  and  worse  under 
these  inflictions.  The  rascally  boys  always  had 
an  excuse  for  any  one  trick  they  were  caught  at. 

“  Couldn’  help  coughin’,  Sir.”  “  Slipped  out  o’ 
m’  lian’,  Sir.”  u  Didn’  go  to,  Sir.”  “  Didn’  dew ’t 
o’  purpose,  Sir.”  And  so  on,  —  always  the  best 
of  reasons  for  the  most  outrageous  of  behavior, 
Idle  master  weighed  himself  at  the  grocer’s  on  a 
platform  balance,  some  ten  days  after  he  began 
keeping  the  school.  At  the  end  of  a  week  he 
weighed  himself  again.  He  had  lost  two  pounds. 
At  the  end  of  another  week  he  had  lost  five.  He 
made  a  little  calculation,  based  on  these  data, 
from  which  he  learned  that  in  a  certain  numbei 
of  months,  going  on  at  this  rate,  he  should  comi 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


43 


to  weigh  precisely  nothing  at  all;  and  as  this 
was  a  sum  in  subtraction  he  did  not  care  t<? 
work  out  in  practice,  Master  Pigeon  took  to  him¬ 
self  wings  and  left  the  school-committee  in  pos¬ 
session  of  a  letter  of  resignation  and  a  vacant 
place  to  fill  once  more. 

This  was  the  school  to  which  Mr.  Bernard 
Langdon  found  himself  appointed  as  master. 
He  accepted  the  place  conditionally,  with  the 
understanding  that  he  should  leave  it  at  the  end 
of  a  month,  if  he  were  tired  of  it. 

The  advent  of  Master  Langdon  to  Pigwacket 
Centre  created  a  much  more  lively  sensation  than 
had  attended  that  of  either  of  his  predecessors. 
Looks  go  a  good  way  all  the  world  over,  and 
though  there  were  several  good-looking  people 
in  the  place,  and  Major  Bush  was  what  the  na¬ 
tives  of  the  town  called  a  “  hahnsome  malm,” 
that  is,  big,  fat,  and  red,  yet  the  sight  of  a  really 
elegant  young  fellow,  with  the  natural  air  which 
grows  up  with  carefully-bred  young  persons,  was 
a  novelty.  The  Brahmin  blood  which  came  from 
his  grandfather  as  well  as  from  his  mother,  a  di¬ 
rect  descendant  of  the  old  Flynt  family,  well 
known  by  the  famous  tutor,  Henry  Flynt,  (see 
Cat.  Harv.  Anno  1693,)  had  been  enlivened  and 
enriched  by  that  of  the  Wentworths,  which  had 
had  a  good  deal  of  ripe  old  Madeira  and  other 
generous  elements  mingled  with  it,  so  that  it  ran 
to  gout  sometimes  in  the  old  folks  and  to  high 
spirit,  warm  complexion,  and  curly  hair  in  some 


14:  ELSIE  VENNER. 

of  the  younger  ones.  The  soft  curling  hair  Mr 
Bernard  had  inherited,  —  something,  perhaps,  of 
the  high  spirit;  but  that  we  shall  have  a  chance 
of  finding  out  by-and-by.  But  the  long  sermons 
and  the  frugal  board  of  his  Brahmin  ancestry, 
with  his  own  habits  of  study,  had  told  upon  his 
color,  which  was  subdued  to  something  more  of 
delicacy  than  one  would  care  to  see  in  a  young 
fellow  with  rough  work  before  him.  This,  how¬ 
ever,  made  him  look  more  interesting,  or,  as  the 
young  ladies  at  Major  Bush’s  said,  “  interestin’.” 

When  Mr.  Bernard  showed  himself  at  meet¬ 
ing,  on  the  first  Sunday  after  his  arrival,  it  may 
be  supposed  that  a  good  many  eyes  were  turned 
upon  the  young  schoolmaster.  There  was  some¬ 
thing  heroic  in  his  coming  forward  so  readily  to 
take  a  place  which  called  for  a  strong  hand,  and 
a  prompt,  steady  will  to  guide  it.  In  fact,  his 
position  was  that  of  a  military  chieftain  on  the 
eve  of  a  battle.  Everybody  knew  everything  in 
Pigwacket  Centre ;  and  it  was  an  understood 
thing  that  the  young  rebels  meant  to  put  down 
the  new  master,  if  they  could.  It  was  natural 
that  the  two  prettiest  girls  in  the  village,  called 
in  the  local  dialect,  as  nearly  as  our  limited  al¬ 
phabet  will  represent  it,  Alminy  Cutterr,  and  Ar- 
villy  Braowne,  should  feel  and  express  an  interest 
in  the  good-looking  stranger,  and  that,  when  their 
flattering  comments  were  repeated  in  the  hear¬ 
ing  of  their  indigenous  admirers,  among  whom 
\s  ere  some  of  the  older  “  boys”  of  the  school,  it 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


45 


should  not  add  to  the  amiable  dispositions  of  the 
turbulent  j'outh. 

Monday  came,  and  the  new  schoolmaster  was 
in  his  chair  at  the  upper  end  of  the  schoolhouse, 
on  the  raised  platform.  The  rustics  looked  at 
his  handsome  face,  thoughtful,  peaceful,  pleas¬ 
ant,  cheerful,  but  sharply  cut  round  the  lips  and 
proudly  lighted  about  the  eyes.  The  ringleader 
of  the  mischief-makers,  the  young  butcher  who 
has  before  figured  in  this  narrative,  looked  at  him 
stealthily,  whenever  he  got  a  chance  to  study 
him  unobserved  ;  for  the  truth  w^as,  he  felt  uncom¬ 
fortable,  whenever  he  found  the  large,  dark  eyes 
fixed  on  his  own  little,  sharp,  deep-set,  gray  ones. 
But  he  managed  to  study  him  pretty  well,  —  first 
his  face,  then  his  neck  and  shoulders,  the  set  of 
his  arms,  the  narrowing  at  the  loins,  the  make  ot 
his  legs,  and  the  way  he  moved.  In  short,  he  ex¬ 
amined  him  as  he  would  have  examined  a  steer, 
to  see  what  he  could  do  and  how  he  would  cut 
up.  If  he  could  only  have  gone  to  him  and  felt 
of  his  muscles,  he  would  have  been  entirely  satis¬ 
fied.  He  was  not  a  very  wise  youth,  but  he  did 
Know  well  enough,  that,  though  big  arms  and 
legs  are  very  good  things,  there  is  something  be¬ 
sides  size  that  goes  to  make  a  man  ;  and  he  had 
heard  stories  of  a  fighting-man,  called  “  The 
Spider/’  from  his  attenuated  proportions,  who 
was  yet  a  terrible  hitter  in  the  ring,  and  had 
whipped  many  a  big-limbed  fellow,  in  and  out  o* 
the  rof  ed  arerr*  - 


16 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


Nothing  could  be  smoother  than  the  way  in 
which  everything  went  on  for  the  first  day  oi 
two.  The  new  master  was  so  kind  and  cour¬ 
teous,  he  seemed  to  take  everything  in  such  a 
natural,  easy  way,  that  there  was  no  chance  to 
pick  a  quarrel  with  him.  He  in  the  mean  time 
thought  it  best  to  watch  the  boys  and  young  men 
for  a  day  or  two  with  as  little  show  of  authority 
as  possible.  It  was  easy  enough  to  see  that  he 
would  have  occasion  for  it  before  long. 

The  schoolhouse  was  a  grim,  old,  red,  one- 
story  building,  perched  on  a  bare  rock  at  the  top 
of  a  hill,  —  partly  because  this  was  a  conspic¬ 
uous  site  for  the  temple  of  learning,  and  partly 
because  land  is  cheap  wh^re  there  is  no  chance 
even  for  rye  or  buckwheat,  and  the  very  sheep 
find  nothing  to  nibble.  About  the  little  porch 
were  carved  initials  and  dates,  at  various  heights, 
from  the  stature  of  nine  to  that  of  eighteen.  In¬ 
side  were  old  unpainted  desks,  —  unpainted,  but 
browned  with  the  umber  of  human  contact,  — 
and  hacked  by  innumerable  jack-knives.  It  was 
.ong  since  the  walls  had  been  whitewashed,  as 
might  be  conjectured  by  the  various  traces  left 
upon  them,  wherever  idle  hands  or  sleepy  heads 
could  reach  them.  A  curious  appearance  was 
noticeable  on  various  higher  parts  of  the  walk 
namely,  a  wart-like  eruption,  as  one  would  be 
tempted  to  call  it,  being  in  reality  a  crop  of  the 
Boft  missiles  before  mentioned,  which,  adhering  in 
considerable  numbers,  and  hardening  after  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


47 


nsual  fashion  of  papier  viache ,  formed  at  last  per¬ 
manent  ornaments  of  the  edifice. 

The  young  master’s  quick  eye  soon  noticed 
that  a  particular  part  of  the  wall  was  most  fa¬ 
vored  with  these  ornamental  appendages.  Their 
position  pointed  sufficiently  clearly  to  the  part  of 
the  room  they  came  from.  In  fact,  there  was  a 
nest  of  young  mutineers  just  there,  which  must 
be  broken  up  by  a  coup  d'etat .  This  was  easily 
effected  by  redistributing  the  seats  and  arranging 
the  scholars  according  to  classes,  so  that  a  mis¬ 
chievous  fellow,  charged  full  of  the  rebellious 
imponderable,  should  find  himself  between  two 
non-conductors,  in  the  shape  of  small  boys  of 
studious  habits.  It  was  managed  quietly  enough, 
in  such  a  plausible  sort  of  way  that  its  motive 
was  not  thought  of.  But  its  effects  were  soon 
felt;  and  then  began  a  system  of  correspondence 
by  signs,  and  the  throwing  of  little  scrawls  done 
up  in  pellets,  and  announced  by  preliminary 
i I'h'ms  !  to  call  the  attention  of  the  distant  youth 
addressed.  Some  of  these  were  incendiary  doc¬ 
uments,  devoting  the  schoolmaster  to  the  lower 

divinities,  as  “  a - stuck-up  dandy,”  as  “  a  - - 

purse-proud  aristocrat,”  as  “  a - sight  too  big 

for  his,  etc.,”  and  holding  him  up  in  a  variety  of 
equally  forcible  phrases  to  the  indignation  of  the 
vouthful  community  of  School  District  No.  1, 
pigwacket  Centre. 

Presently  the  draughtsman  of  the  school  set 
a  caricature  in  circulation,  labelled,  to  prevent 


48 


ELSIE  YEISTNER. 


mistakes,  with  the  schoolmaster’s  name.  An 
immense  bell-crowned  hat,  and  a  long,  pointed 
swallow-tailed  coat  showed  that  the  artist  had 
in  his  mind  the  conventional  dandy,  as  shown  in 
prints  of  thirty  or  forty  years  ago,  rather  than 
any  actual  human  aspect  of  the  time.  But  it 
was  passed  round  among  the  boys  and  made  its 
laugh,  helping  of  course  to  undermine  the  mas¬ 
ter’s  authority,  as  u  Punch  ”  or  the  “  Charivari  ” 
takts  the  dignity  out  of  an  obnoxious  minister. 
One  morning,  on  going  to  the  schoolroom,  Mas¬ 
ter  Langdon  found  an  enlarged  copy  of  this 
sketch,  with  its  label,  pinned  on  the  door.  He 
took  it  down,  smiled  a  little,  put  it  into  his 
pocket,  and  entered  the  schoolroom.  An  insid¬ 
ious  silence  prevailed,  which  looked  as  if  some 
plot  were  brewing.  The  boys  were  ripe  for  mis¬ 
chief,  but  afraid.  They  had  really  no  fault  to 
find  with  the  master,  except  that  he  was  dressed 
like  a  gentleman,  which  a  certain  class  of  fellows 
always  consider  a  personal  insult  to  themselves. 
But  the  older  ones  were  evidently  plotting,  and 
more  than  once  the  warning  a’/i’m !  was  heard, 
and  a  dirty  little  scrap  of  paper  rolled  into  a  wad 
tfhot  from  one  seat  to  another.  One  of  these 
happened  to  strike  the  stove-funnel,  and  lodged 
on  the  master’s  desk.  He  was  cool  enough  not 
to  seem  to  notice  it.  He  secured  it,  however 
and  found  an  opportunity  to  look  at  it,  without 
being  observed  by  the  boys.  It  required  no  im 
wdiate  notice. 


ELSIE  VENKER. 


49 


( 


Hg  who  should  have  enjoyed  the  privilege  of 
Looking  upon  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  the  next 
morning,  when  his  toilet  was  about  half  finished, 
Would  have  had  a  very  pleasant  gratuitous  exhi¬ 
bition.  First  he  buckled  the  strap  of  his  trousers 
pretty  tightly.  Then  he  took  up  a  pair  of  heavy 
dumb-bells,  and  swung  them  for  a  few  minutes ; 
then  two  great  “  Indian  clubs,”  with  which  he  en¬ 
acted  all  sorts  of  impossible-looking  feats.  His 
limbs  were  not  very  large,  nor  his  shoulders  re¬ 
markably  broad ;  but  if  you  knew  as  much  of 
the  muscles  as  all  persons  who  look  at  statues 
and  pictures  with  a  critical  eye  ought  to  have 
learned,  —  if  you  knew  the  trapezius ,  lying  dia¬ 
mond-shaped  over  the  back  and  shoulders  like 
a  monk’s  cowl,  —  or  the  deltoid,  which  caps  the 
shoulder  like  an  epaulette,  —  or  the  triceps ,  which 
furnishes  the  calf  of  the  upper  arm,  —  or  the  hard- 
knotted  biceps ,  —  any  of  the  great  sculptural  land¬ 
marks,  in  fact,  —  you  would  have  said  there  was 
a  pretty  show  of  them,  beneath  the  white  satiny 
skin  of  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon.  And  if  you  had 
keen  him,  when  he  had  laid  down  the  Indian 
clubs,  catch  hold  of  a  leather  strap  that  hung 
from  the  beam  of  the  old-fashioned  ceiling,  and 
lift  and  lower  himself  over  and  over  again  by  his 
Lp ft  hand  alone,  you  might  have  thought  it  a  very 
simple  and  easy  thing  to  do,  until  you  tried  to  do 
kt  yourself. —  Mr.  Bernard  looked  at  himself  with 
die  eye  of  an  expert.  Pretty  well !  ”  he  said ; 
<—  u  not  so  much  fallen  off  as  I  expected.”  Then 

4 


VOL.  I. 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


BO 

he  set  up  his  bolster  in  a  very  knowing  sort  oi 
way,  and  delivered  two  or  three  blows  straight 
as  rulers  and  swift  as  winks.  “  That  will  do,” 
he  said.  Then,  as  if  determined  to  make  a  cer¬ 
tainty  of  his  condition,  he  took  a  dynamometer 
from  one  of  the  drawers  in  his  old  veneered 
bureau.  First  he  squeezed  it  with  his  two  hands. 
Then  he  placed  it  on  the  floor  and  lifted,  steadily, 
strongly.  The  springs  creaked  and  cracked  ;  the 
index  swept  with  a  great  stride  far  up  into  the 
high  figures  of  the  scale ;  it  was  a  good  lift. 
He  was  satisfied.  He  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
his  bed  and  looked  at  his  cleanly-shaped  arms. 
M  If  I  strike  one  of  those  boobies,  I  am  afraid  I 
shall  spoil  him,”  he  said.  Yet  this  young  man, 
when  weighed  with  his  class  at  the  college, 
could  barely  turn  one  hundred  and  forty-two 
pounds  in  the  scale,  —  not  a  heavy  weight, 
surely ;  but  some  of  the  middle  weights,  as  the 
present  English  champion,  for  instance,  seem  to 
be  of  a  far  finer  quality  of  muscle  than  the  bulk¬ 
ier  fellows. 

The  master  took  his  breakfast  with  a  good 
appetite  that  morning,  but  was  perhaps  rather 
more  quiet  than  usual.  After  breakfast  he  went 
np  -stairs  and  put  on  a  light  loose  frock,  instead 
t»f  that  which  he  commonly  wore,  which  was  a 
close-fitting  and  rather  stylish  one.  On  his  way  to 
school  he  met  Alminy  Cutterr,  who  happened  to 
be  walking  in  the  other  direction.  “  Good  morn¬ 
ing,  Miss  Cutter,”  he  said;  for  she  and  another 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


51 


young  lady  had  been  introduced  to  him,  on  a 
former  occasion,  in  the  usual  phrase  of  polite  so« 
ciety  in  presenting  ladies  to  gentlemen,  —  “  Mr. 
Langdon,  let  me  make  y’  acquainted  with  Misa 
Cutterr;  —  let  me  make  y’  acquainted  with  Miss 
Braowne.”  So  he  said,  “Good  morning”;  te 
which  she  replied,  “  Good  morn  in’,  Mr.  Lang* 
don.  Haow’s  yom  haalth  ?  ”  The  answer  to 
this  question  ought  naturally  to  have  been  the 
end  of  the  talk ;  but  Alminy  Cutterr  lingered 
and  looked  as  if  she  had  something  more  on 
her  mind. 

A  young  fellow  does  not  require  a  great  ex¬ 
perience  to  read  a  simple  country-girl’s  face  as 
if  it  were  a  signboard.  Alminy  was  a  good  soul, 
with  red  cheeks  and  bright  eyes,  kind-hearted  as 
she  could  be,  and  it  was  out  of  the  question  for 
her  to  hide  her  thoughts  or  feelings  like  a  fine 
lady.  Her  bright  eyes  were  moist  and  her  red 
cheeks  paler  than  their  wont,  as  she  said,  with 
her  lips  quivering,  —  “  Oh,  Mr.  Langdon,  them 
boys  ’ll  be  the  death  of  ye,  if  ye  don’t  take 
caiir !  ” 

“  Why,  what’s  the  matter,  my  dear  ?  ”  said  Mr. 
Bernard.  —  Don’t  think  there  was  anything  very 
sdd  in  that  “  my  dear,”  at  the  second  interview 
with  a  village  belle;  —  some  of  these  woman- 
tamers  call  a  girl  “  My  dear,”  after  five  minutes’ 
acquaintance,  and  it  sounds  all  right  as  they  say 
\t.  But  you  had  better  not  try  it  at  a  venture. 

It  sounded  all  right  to  Alminy,  as  Mr.  Bernard 


52 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


8-aid  it.  —  “  I  ’ll  tell  ye  what’s  the  mahtterr,”  she 
said,  in  a  frightened  voice.  “  Ahbner’s  go’ll’  to 
ear’  his  dog,  ’n’  he  ’ll  set  him  on  ye  ’z  sure  ’z  y’  ’r’ 
alive.  ’T ’s  the  same  cretur  that  haaf  eat  up 
Eben  Squires’s  little  Jo,  a  year  come  nex’  Faiist 
day.” 

Now  this  last  statement  was  undoubtedly  over¬ 
colored  ;  as  little  Jo  Squires  was  running  about 
the  village,  —  with  an  ugly  scar  on  his  arm,  it  is 
true,  where  the  beast  had  caught  him  with  his 
teeth,  on  the  occasion  of  the  child’s  taking  liber¬ 
ties  with  him,  as  he  had  been  accustomed  to  do 
with  a  good-tempered  Newfoundland  dog,  who 
seemed  to  like  being  pulled  and  hauled  round  by 
children.  After  this  the  creature  was  commonly 
muzzled,  and,  as  he  was  fed  on  raw  meat  chiefly, 
was  always  ready  for  a  fight, — which  he  was 
occasionally  indulged  in,  when  anything  stout 
enough  to  match  him  could  be  found  in  any  of 
the  neighboring  villages. 

Tiger,  or,  more  briefly,  Tige,  the  property  of 
Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  belonged  to  a  species  not 
distinctly  named  in  scientific  books,  but  well 
known  to  our  country-folks  under  the  nam 
w  Yallah  dog.”  They  do  not  use  this  expres  ~ 
sion  as  they  would  say  black  dog  or  ivhite  dog, 
but  with  almost  as  definite  a  meaning  as  when 
they  speak  of  a  terrier  or  a  spaniel.  A  “  yallah 
dog,”  is  a  large  canine  brute,  of  a  dingy  old- 
fiannel  color,  of  no  particular  breed  except  hia 
own,  who  hangs  round  a  tavern  or  a  butcher’s 


ELSIE  VENDEE. 


53 


Bliop,  or  trots  alongside  of  a  team,  looking  as  if 
he  were  disgusted  with  the  world,  and  the  world 
with  him.  Our  inland  population,  while  they 
tolerate  him,  speak  of  him  with  contempt.  Old 

- ,  of  Meredith  Bridge,  used  to  twit  the  sun 

for  not  shining  on  cloudy  days,  swearing,  that, 
if  he  hung  up  his  “  yallah  dog,”  he  would  make 
a  better  show  of  daylight.  A  country  fellow, 
abusing  a  horse  of  his  neighbor’s,  vowed,  that, 
M  if  he  had  such  a  hoss,  he’d  swap  him  for  a 
i  yallah  dog,’  —  and  then  shoot  the  dog.” 

Tige  was  an  ill-conditioned  brute  by  nature, 
and  art  had  not  improved  him  by  cropping  his 
ears  and  tail  and  investing  him  with  a  spiked 
collar.  He  bore  on  his  person,  also,  various  not 
ornamental  scars,  marks  of  old  battles  ;  for  Tige 
had  fight  in  him,  as  was  said  before,  and  as  might 
be  guessed  by  a  certain  bluntness  about  the  muz¬ 
zle,  with  a  projection  of  the  lower  jaw,  which 
looked  as  if  there  might  be  a  bull-dog  stripe 
among  the  numerous  bar-sinisters  of  his  lineage. 

It  was  hardly  fair,  however,  to  leave  Alminv 
Cutterr  waiting  while  this  piece  of  natural  his¬ 
tory  was  telling.  —  As  she  spoke  of  little  Jo,  who 
had  been  “  haaf  eat  up  ”  by  Tige,  she  could  not 
contain  her  sympathies,  and  began  to  cry. 

u  Why,  my  dear  little  soul,”  said  Mr.  Bernard, 
1  what  are  you  worried  about  ?  I  used  to  play 
with  a  bear  when  I  was  a  bov  ;  and  the  beai 
used  to  hug  me,  and  1  used  to  kiss  niin, - 


54 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


It  was  too  bad  of  Mr  Bernard,  only  the  second 
time  he  had  seen  Alminy ;  but  her  kind  feelings 
had  touched  him,  and  that  seemed  the  most  nat¬ 
ural  way  of  expressing  his  gratitude.  Alminy 
looked  round  to  see  if  anybody  was  near ;  she 
saw  nobody,  so  of  course  it  would  do  no  good 
to  “  holler.”  She  saw  nobody ;  but  a  stout  young 
fellow,  leading  a  yellow  dog,  muzzled,  saw  her 
through  a  crack  in  a  picket  fence,  not  a  great 
Way  off  the  road.  Many  a  year  he  had  been 
w  hangin’  ’raoun’  ”  Alminy,  and  never  did  he  see 
any  encouraging  look,  or  hear  any  “  Behave, 
naow !  ”  or  “  Come,  naow,  a’n’t  ye  ’shamed  ?  ” 
or  other  forbidding  phrase  of  acquiescence,  such 
as  village  belles  understand  as  well  as  ever  did 
the  nymph  who  fled  to  the  willows  in  the  eclogue 
we  all  remember. 

No  wonder  he  was  furious,  when  he  saw  the 
schoolmaster,  who  had  never  seen  the  girl  until 
within  a  week,  touching  with  his  lips  those  rosy 
cheeks  which  he  had  never  dared  to  approach. 
But  that  was  all ;  it  was  a  sudden  impulse ;  and 
the  master  turned  away  from  the  young  girl, 
laughing,  and  telling  her  not  to  fret  herself  about 
Him,  —  he  would  take  care  of  himself. 

So  Master  Langdon  walked  on  toward  his 
schoolhouse,  not  displeased,  perhaps,  with  his  lit¬ 
tle  adventure,  nor  immensely  elated  by  it ;  for  he 
was  one  of  the  natural  class  of  the  sex-subduers 
and  had  had  many  a  smile  without  asking,  which 
had  been  denied  to  the  feeble  youth  who  try  t« 


ELSIE  VENNEIi. 


55 


tvin  favor  by  pleading  their  passion  in  rhyme,  and 
Even  to  the  more  formidable  approaches  of  young 
officers  in  volunteer  companies,  considered  by 
many  to  be  quite  irresistible  to  the  fair  who 
have  once  beheld  them  from  their  windows  in  the 
epaulettes  and  plumes  and  sashes  of  the  “  Kg' 
wacket  Invincibles,”  or  the  “  Hackmatack  Ran 
gers.” 

Master  Lnngdon  took  his  seat  and  began  the 
exercises  of  his  school.  The  smaller  boys  recited 
their  lessons  well  enough,  but  some  of  the  larger 
ones  were  negligent  and  surly.  He  noticed  one 
or  two  of  them  looking  toward  the  door,  as  if  ex¬ 
pecting  somebody  or  something  in  that  direction. 
At  half  past  nine  o’clock,  Abner  Briggs,  Junior, 
who  had  not  yet  shown  himself,  made  his  appear¬ 
ance.  He  was  followed  by  his  u  yallah  dog,” 
without  his  muzzle,  who  squatted  down  very 
grimly  near  the  door,  and  gave  a  wolfish  look 
round  the  room,  as  if  he  were  considering  which 
was  the  plumpest  boy  to  begin  with.  The  young 
butcher,  meanwhile,  went  to  his  seat,  looking 
somewhat  flushed,  except  round  the  lips,  which 
were  hardly  as  red  as  common,  and  set  pretty 
sharply. 

“  Put  out  that  dog,  Abner  Briggs  !  ”  —  The 
master  spoke  as  the  captain  speaks  to  the  helms¬ 
man,  when  there  are  rocks  foaming  at  the  lips, 
Eight  under  his  lee. 

Abner  Briggs  answered  as  the  helmsman  an¬ 
swers,  when  he  knows  he  has  a  mutinous  crew 


56  ELSIE  VENNER. 

round  him  that  mean  to  run  the  ship  on  the  reef, 
and  is  one  of  the  mutineers  himself.  “Put  him 
aout  y’rself,  ’f  ye  a’n’t  afcard  on  him !  ” 

The  master  stepped  into  the  aisle.  The  great 
cur  showed  his  teeth,  —  and  the  devilish  instincts 
of  his  old  wolf-ancestry  looked  out  of  his  eyes, 
and  flashed  from  his  sharp  tusks,  and  yawned  in 
his  wide  mouth  and  deep  red  gullet. 

The  movements  of  animals  are  so  much  quicker 
than  those  of  human  beings  commonly  are,  that 
they  avoid  blows  as  easily  as  one  of  us  steps  out 
of  the  way  of  an  ox-cart.  It  must  be  a  very  stu¬ 
pid  dog  that  lets  himself  be  run  over  by  a  fast 
driver  in  his  gig ;  he  can  jump  out  of  the  wheel’s 
way  after  the  tire  has  already  touched  him.  So, 
while  one  is  lifting  a  stick  to  strike  or  drawing 
back  his  foot  to  kick,  the  beast  makes  his  spring, 
and  the  blow  or  the  kick  comes  too  late. 

It  was  not  so  this  time.  The  master  was  a 
fencer,  and  something  of  a  boxer  ;  he  had  played 
at  single-stick,  and  was  used  to  watching  an  ad¬ 
versary’s  eye  and  coming  down  on  him  without 
any  of  those  premonitory  symptoms  by  which 
unpractised  persons  show  long  beforehand  what 
mischief  they  meditate. 

“Out  with  you!”  he  said,  fiercely,  —  and  ex¬ 
plained  what  he  meant  by  a  sudden  flash  of  his 
foot  that  clashed  the  yellow  dog’s  white  teeth  to¬ 
gether  like  the  springing  of  a  bear-trap.  The  cui 
knew  he  had  found  his  master  at  the  first  word 
and  glance,  as  low  animals  on  four  legs,  or  a 


ELSIE  VENNEE. 


57 


smaller  number,  always  do ;  and  the  blow  took 
him  so  by  surprise,  that  it  curled  him  up  in  an 
instant,  and  he  went  bundling  out  of  the  open 
schoolhouse-door  with  a  most  pitiable  yelp,  and 
his  stump  of  a  tail  shut  down  as  close  as  his 
owner  ever  shut  the  short,  stubbed  blade  of  hi3 
jack-knife. 

It  was  time  for  the  other  cur  to  find  who  his 
master  was. 

“  Follow  your  dog,  Abner  Briggs !  ”  said  Mas¬ 
ter  Langdon. 

The  stout  butcher-youth  looked  round,  but  the 
rebels  were  all  cowed  and  sat  still. 

“  I’ll  go  when  I’m  ready,”  he  said,  —  “  ’n’  I 
guess  I  won’t  go  afore  I’m  ready.” 

u  You’re  ready  now,”  said  Master  Langdon, 
turning  up  his  cuffs  so  that  the  little  boys  noticed 
the  yellow  gleam  of  a  pair  of  gold  sleeve-buttons, 
once  worn  by  Colonel  Percy  Wentworth,  famous 
in  the  Old  French  War. 

Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  did  not  apparently  think 
he  was  ready,  at  any  rate ;  for  he  rose  up  in  his 
place,  and  stood  with  clenched  fists,  defiant,  as 
the  master  strode  towards  him.  The  master 
knew  the  fellow  was  really  frightened,  for  all  his 
looks,  and  that  he  must  have  no  time  to  rally. 
So  he  caught  him  suddenly  by  the  collar,  and, 
with  one  great  pull,  had  him  out  over  his  desk 
and  on  the  open  floor.  He  gave  him  a  sharp 
fling  backwards  and  stood  looking  at  him. 

The  rough-and-tumble  fighter*  all  clinch ,  as 


58 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


everybody  knows ;  and  Abner  Briggs,  Junior,  was 
one  of  that  kind.  He  remembered  how  he  had 
floored  Master  Weeks,  and  he  had  just  “  spunk’* 
enough  left  in  him  to  try  to  repeat  his  former 
successful  experiment  on  the  new  master.  He 
sprang  at  him,  open-handed,  to  clutch  him.  So 
the  master  had  to  strike,  —  once,  but  very  hard, 
and  just  in  the  place  to  tell.  No  doubt,  the  au- 
thoritv  that  doth  hedge  a  schoolmaster  added  to 
the  effect  of  the  blow ;  but  the  blow  was  itself  a 
neat  one,  and  did  not  require  to  be  repeated. 

“  Now  go  home,”  said  the  master,  “  and  don’t 
let  me  see  you  or  your  dog  here  again.”  And  he 
turned  his  cuffs  down  over  the  gold  sleeve-but* 
tons. 

This  finished  the  great  Pigwacket  Centre  School 
rebellion.  What  could  be  done  with  a  master 
who  was  so  pleasant  as  long  as  the  boys  behaved 
decently,  and  such  a  terrible  fellow  when  he  got 
“riled,”  as  they  called  it?  In  a  week’s  time 
everything  was  reduced  to  order,  and  the  school- 
committee  were  delighted.  The  master,  however, 
had  received  a  proposition  so  much  more  agreea¬ 
ble  and  advantageous,  that  he  informed  the  com¬ 
mittee  he  should  leave  at  the  end  of  his  month 
having  in  his  eye  a  sensible  and  energetic  young 
college-graduate  who  would  be  willing  and  fully 
competent  to  take  his  place. 

So,  at  the  expiration  of  the  appointed  time, 
Bernard  Langdon,  late  master  of  the  School  Dis¬ 
trict  No.  1,  Pigwacket  Centre,  took  his  departure 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


5? 


from  that  place  for  another  locality,  whither  we 
shall  follow  him,  carrying  with  him  the  regrets 
of  the  committee,  of  most  of  the  scholars,  and 
of  several  young  ladies ;  also  two  locks  of  hair, 
sent  unbeknown  to  payrents,  one  dark  and  one 
warmish  auburn,  inscribed  with  the  respective  in 
itials  of  Alminy  Outterr  and  Arvilly  Braowne. 


60 


EL3IE  VENNaft- 


OHAPTER  IV 

THE  MOTH  FLIES  INTO  THE  CANDLE- 

The  invitation  which  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon 
had  accepted  came  from  the  Board  of  Trustees 
of  the  u  Apollinean  Female  Institute,”  a  school 
for  the  education  of  young  ladies,  situated  in  the 
flourishing  town  of  Rockland.  This  was  an  es¬ 
tablishment  on  a  considerable  scale,  in  which  a 
hundred  scholars  or  thereabouts  were  taught  the 
ordinary  English  branches,  several  of  the  modern 
languages,  something  of  Latin,  if  desired,  with  a 
little  natural  philosophy,  metaphysics,  and  rheto¬ 
ric,  to  finish  olf  with  in  the  last  year,  and  music 
at  any  time  when  they  would  pay  for  it.  At  the 
close  of  their  career  in  the  Institute,  they  were 
submitted  to  a  grand  public  examination,  and  re¬ 
ceived  diplomas  tied  in  blue  ribbons,  which  pro¬ 
claimed  them  with  a  great  flourish  of  capitals  to 
be  graduates  of  the  Apollinean  Female  Institute. 

Rockland  was  a  town  of  no  inconsiderable  pre¬ 
tensions.  It  was  ennobled  by  lying  at  the  foot 
of  a  mountain,  —  called  by  the  working-folks  of 
the  place  “  the  Maounting,”  —  which  sufficiently 
showed  that  it  was  the  principal  high  land  of  the 


ELSIE  VENNER.  61 

district  in  which  it  was  situated.  It  lay  to  the 
south  of  this,  and  basked  in  the  sunshine  as  Italy 
stretches  herself  before  the  Alps.  To  pass  from 
the  town  of  Tamarack  on  the  north  of  the  moun¬ 
tain  to  Rockland  on  the  south  was  like  crossing 
from  Coire  to  Chiavenna. 

There  is  nothing  gives  glory  and  grandeur  and 
romance  and  mystery  to  a  place  like  the  impend¬ 
ing  presence  of  a  high  mountain.  Our  beautiful 
Northampton  with  its  fair  meadows  and  noble 
stream  is  lovely  enough,  but  owes  its  surpassing 
attraction  to  those  twin  summits  which  brood 
over  it  like  living  presences,  looking  down  into  its 
streets  as  if  they  were  its  tutelary  divinities,  dress* 
ing  and  undressing  their  green  shrines,  robing 
themselves  in  jubilant  sunshine  or  in  sorrowing 
clouds,  and  doing  penance  in  the  snowy  shroud 
of  winter,  as  if  they  had  living  hearts  under  their 
rocky  ribs  and  changed  their  mood  like  the  chil¬ 
dren  of  the  soil  at  their  feet,  who  grow  up  under 
their  almost  parental  smiles  and  frowns.  Happy 
is  the  child  whose  first  dreams  of  heaven  are 
blended  with  the  evening  glories  of  Mount  Hol¬ 
yoke,  when  the  sun  is  firing  its  treetops,  and  gild¬ 
ing  the  white  walls  that  mark  its  one  human 
dwelling !  If  the  other  and  the  wilder  of  the 
two  summits  has  a  scowl  of  terror  in  its  over¬ 
hanging  brows,  yet  is  it  a  pleasing  fear  to  look 
upon  its  savage  solitudes  through  the  barred 
nursery-windows  in  the  heart  of  the  sweet,  com¬ 
panionable  village.  —  And  how  the  mountain? 


62 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


love  their  children  !  The  sea  is  of  a  facile  virtue, 
and  will  ran  to  kiss  the  first  comer  in  any  port  he 
visits ;  but  tlie  chaste  mountains  sit  apart,  and 
show  their  faces  only  in  the  midst  of  their  own 
families. 

The  Mountain  which  kept  watch  to  the  north  of 
Rockland  lay  waste  and  almost  inviolate  through 
much  of  its  domain.  The  catamount  still  glared 
from  the  branches  of  its  old  hemlocks  on  the 
lesser  beasts  that  strayed  beneath  him.  It  was 
not  long  since  a  wolf  had  wandered  down,  fam¬ 
ished  in  the  winter’s  dearth,  and  left  a  few  bones 
and  some  tufts  of  wool  of  what  had  been  a  lamb 
in  the  morning.  Nay,  there  were  broad-footed 
tracks  in  the  snow  only  two  years  previously, 
which  could  not  be  mistaken;  —  the  black  bear 
alone  could  have  set  that  plantigrade  seal,  and 
little  children  must  come  home  early  from  school 
and  play,  for  he  is  an  indiscriminate  feeder  when 
he  is  hungry,  and  a  little  child  would  not  come 
amiss  when  other  game  was  wanting. 

But  these  occasional  visitors  may  have  been 
mere  wanderers,  which,  straying  along  in  the 
Woods  by  day,  and  perhaps  stalking  through  the 
freets  of  still  villages  by  night,  had  worked  their 
way  along  down  from  the  ragged  rnountain-spurs 
of  higher  latitudes.  The  one  feature  of  The 
Mountain  that  shed  the  brownest  horror  on  its 
woods  was  the  existence  of  the  terrible  region 
knDwn  as  Rattlesnake  Ledge,  and  still  tenantea 
by  those  damnable  reptiles,  which  distil  a  fierce/ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


63 

renom  under  our  cold  northern  sky  than  the 
cobra  himself  in  the  land  of  tropical  soices  and 
poisons. 

From  the  earliest  settlement  of  the  place,  this 
fact  had  been,  next  to  the  Indians,  the  reign¬ 
ing  nightmare  of  the  inhabitants.  It  was  easy 
enough,  after  a  time,  to  drive  away  the  savages ; 
for  “  a  screeching  Indian  Divell,”  as  our  fathers 
called  him,  could  not  crawl  into  the  crack  of  a 
rock  to  escape  from  his  pursuers.  But  the  ven¬ 
omous  population  of  Rattlesnake  Ledge  had  a 
Gibraltar  for  their  fortress  that  might  have  defied 
the  siege-train  dragged  to  the  walls  of  Sebasto¬ 
pol.  In  its  deep  embrasures  and  its  impregnable 
casemates  they  reared  their  families,  they  met  in 
love  or  wrath,  they  twined  together  in  family 
knots,  they  hissed  defiance  in  hostile  clans,  they 
fed,  slept,  hybernated,  and  in  due  time  died  in 
peace.  Many  a  foray  had  the  town’s-people  made, 
and  many  a  stuffed  skin  was  shown  as  a  trophy, 
—  nay,  there  were  families  where  the  children’s 
first  toy  was  made  from  the  warning  append¬ 
age  that  once  vibrated  to  the  wrath  of  one  of 
these  “cruel  serpents.”  Sometimes  one  of  them, 
coaxed  out  by  a  warm  sun,  would  writhe  himself 
down  the  hillside  into  the  roads,  up  the  walks 
that  led  to  houses, — -  worse  than  this,  into  the 
long  grass,  where  the  bare-footed  mowers  would 
Boon  pass  with  their  swinging  scythes,  —  more 
“arely  into  houses, —  and  on  one  memorable  oc< 
casion,  early  in  the  last  century,  into  the  meeting 


64 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


house,  where  he  took  a  position  on  the  pulpit- 
stairs, —  as  is  narrated  in  the  “  Account  cf  Some 
Remarkable  Providences,”  etc.,  where  it  is  sug¬ 
gested  that  a  strong  tendency  of  the  Rev.  Didy- 
mus  Bean,  the  Minister  at  that  time,  towards  the 
Arminian  Heresy  may  have  had  something  to  do 
with  it,  and  that  the  Serpent  supposed  to  have 
been  killed  on  the  Pul  pit- Stairs  was  a  false  show 
of  the  Dsemon’s  Contrivance,  he  having  come 
in  to  listen  to  a  Discourse  which  was  a  sweet 
Savour  in  his  Nostrils,  and,  of  course,  not  being 
capable  of  being  killed  Himself.  Others  said, 
however,  that,  though  there  was  good  Reason 
to  think  it  was  a  Daemon,  yet  he  did  come  with 
Intent  to  bite  the  Heel  of  that  faithful  Servant, 
■ —  etc. 

One  Gilson  is  said  to  have  died  of  the  bite  of 
a  rattlesnake  in  this  town  early  in  the  present 
century.  After  this  there  was  a  great  snake-hunt, 
in  which  very  many  of  these  venomous  beasts 
were  killed,  —  one  in  particular,  said  to  have  been 
as  big  round  as  a  stout  man’s  arm,  and  to  have 
had  no  less  than  forty  joints  to  his  rattle,  —  in¬ 
dicating,  according  to  some,  that  he  had  lived 
forty  years,  but,  if  we  might  put  any  faith  in 
the  Indian  tradition,  that  he  had  killed  forty 
human  beings, —  an  idle  fancy,  clearly.  This 
hunt,  however,  had  no  permanent  effect  in  keep¬ 
ing  down  the  serpent  population.  Viviparous 
creatures  are  a  kind  of  specie-paying  lot,  buf 
oviparous  ones  only  give  their  notes,  as  it  were 


65 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


for  a  future  brood,  —  an  egg  being,  so  to  speak; 
a  promise  to  pay  a  young  one  by-and-by,  if 
nothing  happen.  Now  the  domestic  habits 
of  the  rattlesnake  are  not  studied  very  closely, 
£or  obvious  reasons ;  but  it  is,  no  doubt,  to 
ell  intents  and  purposes  oviparous.  Conse¬ 
quently  it  has  large  families,  and  is  not  easy 
to  kill  out. 

In  the  year  184 — ,  a  melancholy  proof  was 
afforded  to  the  inhabitants  of  Rockland,  that  the 
brood  which  infested  The  Mountain  was  not 
extirpated.  A  very  interesting  young  married 
woman,  detained  at  home  at  the  time  by  the 
state  of  her  health,  was  bitten  in  the  entry  of 
her  <  wn  house  by  a  rattlesnake  which  had  found 
its  way  down  from  The  Mountain.  Owing  to 
the  almost  instant  employment  of  powerful  rem¬ 
edies,  the  bite  did  not  prove  immediately  fatal ; 
but  she  died  within  a  few  months  of  the  time 
when  she  was  bitten. 

Ail  this  seemed  to  throw  a  lurid  kind  of 
shadow  over  The  Mountain.  Yet,  as  many 
years  passed  without  any  accident,  people  grew 
comparatively  careless,  and  it  might  rather  be 
said  to  add  a  fearful  kind  of  interest  to  the  ro¬ 
mantic  hillside,  that  the  banded  reptiles,  which 
had  been  the  terror  of  the  red  men  for  nobody 
knows  how  many  thousand  years,  were  there  still, 
with  the  same  poison-bags  and  spring-teeth  at 
the  white  men’s  service,  if  they  meddled  with 
them. 


VOL.  I. 


B 


66 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


The  other  natural  features  of  Rockland  were 
Buch  as  many  of  our  pleasant  country-towns  can 
boast  of.  A  brook  came  tumbling  down  the 
mountain-side  and  skirted  the  most  thickly  set¬ 
tled  portion  of  the  village.  In  the  parts  of  its 
course  where  it  ran  through  the  woods,  the  water 
looked  almost  as  brown  as  coffee  flowing  from 
its  urn,  —  to  say  like  smoky  quartz  would  per¬ 
haps  give  a  better  idea,  —  but  in  the  open  plain 
it  sparkled  over  the  pebbles  white  as  a  queen’s 
diamonds.  There  were  huckleberry-pastures  on 
the  lower  flanks  of  The  Mountain,  with  plenty 
of  the  sweet-scented  bayberry  mingled  with  the 
other  bushes.  In  other  fields  grew  great  store  of 
high-bush  blackberries.  Along  the  road-side  were 
barberry-bushes,  hung  all  over  with  bright  red 
coral  pendants  in  autumn  and  far  into  the  winter. 
Then  there  were  swamps  set  thick  with  dingy 
alders,  where  the  three-leaved  arum  and  the 
skunk’s-cabbage  grew  broad  and  succulent,  — 
shelving  down  into  black  boggy  pools  here  and 
there,  at  the  edge  of  which  the  green  frog,  stupid¬ 
est  of  his  tribe,  sat  waiting  to  be  victimized  by 
boy  or  snapping-turtle  long  after  the  shy  and 
agile  leopard-frog  had  taken  the  six-foot  spring 
that  plumped  him  into  the  middle  of  the  pool. 
And  on  the  neighboring  banks  the  maiden-haij 
spread  its  flat  disk  of  embroidered  fronds  on  the 
wire-like  stem  that  glistened  polished  and  brown 
as  the  darkest  tortoise-shell,  and  pale  violets 
cheated  by  the  cold  skies  of  their  hues  and  pel 


ELSIE  VENNER,  6? 

fume,  sunned  themselves  like  white-cheeked  in¬ 
valids.  Over  these  rose  the  old  forest-trees, — . 
the  maple,  scarred  with  the  wounds  which  had 
drained  away  its  sweet  life-blood,  - —  the  beech,  its 
smooth  gray  bark  mottled  so  as  to  look  like  the 
body  of  one  of  those  great  snakes  of  old  that 
used  to  frighten  armies,  —  always  the  mark  of 
lovers’  knives,  as  in  the  days  of  Musidora  and  her 
swain,  —  the  yellow  birch,  rough  as  the  breast  of 
Silenus  in  old  marbles,  —  the  wild  cherry,  its  little 
bitter  fruit  lying  unheeded  at  its  foot,  —  and,  soar¬ 
ing  over  all,  the  huge,  coarse-barked,  splintery- 
limbed,  dark-mantled  hemlock,  in  the  depth  of 
whose  aerial  solitudes  the  crow  brooded  on  her 
nest  unscared,  and  the  gray  squirrel  lived  un¬ 
harmed  till  his  incisors  grew  to  look  like  ram’s- 
horns. 

Rockland  would  have  been  but  half  a  town 
without  its  pond ;  Quinnepeg  Pond  was  the 
name  of  it,  but  the  young  ladies  of  the  Apol- 
Linean  Institute  were  very  anxious  that  it  should 
be  called  Crystalline  Lake.  It  was  here  that  the 
young  folks  used  to  sail  in  summer  and  skate  in 
winter;  here,  too,  those  queer,  old,  rum-scented 
good-for-nothing,  lazy,  story-telling,  half-vaga 
bonds,  who  sawed  a  little  wood  or  dug  a  few 
potatoes  now  and  then  under  the  pretence  of 
working  for  their  living  used  to  go  and  fish 
through  the  ice  for  pickerel  every  winter.  And 
here  those  three  young  people  were  drowned,  a 
few  summers  ago,  by  the  upsetting  of  a  sail-boa 


68 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


in  a  sudden  flaw  of  wind.  There  is  not  one  of 
these  smiling  ponds  which  has  not  devoured  more 
youths  and  maidens  than  any  of  those  monsters 
the  ancients  used  to  tell  such  lies  about.  But 
it  was  a  pretty  pond,  and  never  looked  more  in¬ 
nocent—  so  the  native  “  bard”  of  Rockland  said 
in  his  elegy — than  on  the  morning  when  they 
found  Sarah  Jane  and  Ellen  Maria  floating 
among  the  lily-pads. 

The  Apollinean  Institute,  or  Institoot,  as  it 
was  more  commonly  called,  was,  in  the  language 
of  its  Prospectus,  a  “  first-class  Educational  Es¬ 
tablishment.”  It  employed  a  considerable  corps 
of  instructors  to  rough  out  and  finish  the  hundred 
young  lady  scholars  it  sheltered  beneath  its  roof. 
First,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Peckham,  the  Principal  and 
the  Matron  of  the  school.  Silas  Peckham  was 
a  thorough  Yankee,  born  on  a  windy  part  of  the 
coast,  and  reared  chiefly  on  salt-fish.  Everybody 
knows  the  type  of  Yankee  produced  by  this  cli¬ 
mate  and  diet :  thin,  as  if  he  had  been  split  and 
dried  ;  with  an  ashen  kind  of  complexion,  like 
the  tint  of  the  food  he  is  made  of;  and  about  as 
sharp,  tough,  juiceless,  and  biting  to  deal  with  as 
the  other  is  to  the  taste.  Silas  Peckham  kept  a 
young  ladies’  school  exactly  as  he  would  have 
kept  a  hundred  head  of  cattle,  —  for  the  sim¬ 
ple,  unadorned  purpose  of  making  just  as  much 
money  in  just  as  few  years  as  could  be  safeh 
done.  Mr.  Peckham  gave  very  little  personal  at¬ 
tention  to  the  department  of  instruction,  but  was 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


69 


always  busy  with  contracts  for  flour  and  pota 
toes,  beef  and  pork,  and  other  nutritive  staples, 
the  amount  of  which  required  for  such  an  estab¬ 
lishment  was  enough  to  frighten  a  quartermaster. 
Mrs.  Peck  ham  was  from  the  West,  raised  on  In¬ 
dian  corn  and  pork,  which  give  a  fuller  outlins 
and  a  more  humid  temperament,  but  may  per¬ 
haps  be  thought  to  render  people  a  little  coarse- 
fibred.  Her  specialty  was  to  look  after  the 
feathering,  cackling,  roosting,  rising,  and  general 
behavior  of  these  hundred  chicks.  An  honest, 
ignorant  woman,  she  could  not  have  passed  an 
examination  in  the  youngest  class.  So  this  dis¬ 
tinguished  institution  was  under  the  charge  of  a 
commissary  and  a  housekeeper,  and  its  real  busi¬ 
ness  was  making  money  by  taking  young  girls  in 
as  boarders. 

Connected  with  this,  however,  was  the  inci¬ 
dental  fact,  which  the  public  took  for  the  prin¬ 
cipal.  one,  namely,  the  business  of  instruction. 
Mr.  Peckham  knew  well  enough  that  it  was  just 
as  well  to  have  good  instructors  as  bad  ones,  so 
far  as  cost  was  concerned,  and  a  great  deal  better 
for  the  reputation  of  his  feeding-establishment^ 
He  tried  to  get  the  best  he  could  without  pay¬ 
ing  too  much,  and,  having  got  them,  to  screw  all 
the  work  out  of  them  that  could  possibly  be  ex¬ 
tracted. 

There  was  a  master  for  the  English  branches, 
with  a  young  lady  assistant.  There  was  another 
young  lady  who  taugnt  French,  of  the  akvahng 


ro 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


and  pahndahng  style,  which  does  Aot  exactly 
smack  of  the  asphalt  of  the  Boulevards.  There 
Was  also  a  German  teacher  of  music,  who  some¬ 
times  helped  in  French  of  the  ahfaung  and  baurtr 
taxing  style,  —  so  that,  between  the  two,  the  young 
ladies  could  hardly  have  been  mistaken  for  Paris¬ 
ians,  by  a  Committee  of  the  French  Academy. 
The  German  teacher  also  taught  a  Latin  class 
after  his  fashion,  —  henna ,  a  ben,  gahboot ,  a  head, 
and  so  forth. 

The  master  for  the  English  branches  had  lately 
left  the  school  for  private  reasons,  which  need  not 
be  here  mentioned,  —  but  he  had  gone,  at  any 
rate,  and  it  was  his  place  which  had  been  offered 
to  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon.  The  offer  came  just 
in  season,  —  as,  for  various  causes,  he  was  willing 
to  leave  the  place  where  he  had  begun  his  new 
experience. 

It  was  on  a  fine  morning,  that  Mr.  Bernard, 
ushered  in  by  Mr.  Peckham,  made  his  appearance 
in  the  great  schoolroom  of  the  Apollinean  Insti¬ 
tute.  A  general  rustle  ran  all  round  the  seats 
when  the  handsome  young  man  was  introduced. 
The  principal  carried  him  to  the  desk  of  the 
young  lady  English  assistant,  Miss  Barley  by 
name,  and  introduced  him  to  her. 

There  was  not  a  great  deal  of  study  done  that 
day.  The  young  lady  assistant  had  to  point  out 
to  the  new  master  the  whole  routine  in  which  the 
classes  were  engaged  when  their  late  teacher  left 
mid  which  had  gone  on  as  well  as  it  could  since 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


71 


Then  Master  Langdon  had  a  great  many  ques¬ 
tions  to  ask,  some  relating  to  his  new  duties,  and 
Borne,  perhaps,  implying  a  degree  of  curiosity  not 
very  unnatural  under  the  circumstances.  The 
truth  is,  the  general  effect  of  the  schoolroom, 
with  its  scores  of  young  girls,  all  their  eyes 
naturally  centring  on  him  with  fixed  or  furtive 
glances,  was  enough  to  bewilder  and  confuse  a 
young  man  like  Master  Langdon,  though  he 
was  not  destitute  of  self-possession,  as  we  have 
already  seen. 

You  cannot  get  together  a  hundred  girls,  tak¬ 
ing  them  as  they  come,  from  the  comfortable  and 
affluent  classes,  probably  anywhere,  certainly  not 
in  New  England,  without  seeing  a  good  deal  of 
beauty.  In  fact,  we  very  commonly  mean  by 
beauty  the  way  young  girls  look  when  there  is 
nothing  to  hinder  their  looking  as  Nature  meant 
them  to.  And  the  great  schoolroom  of  the  Apol- 
linean  Institute  did  really  make  so  pretty  a  show 
on  the  morning  when  Master  Langdon  entered 
it,  that  he  might  be  pardoned  for  asking  Miss 
Darley  more  questions  about  his  scholars  than 
about  their  lessons. 

There  were  girls  of  all  ages  :  little  creatures, 
some  pallid  and  delicate-looking,  the  offspring 
of  invalid  parents, —  much  given  to  books,  not 
much  to  mischief,  commonly  spoken  of  as  partic¬ 
ularly  good  children,  and  contrasted  with  another 
sort,  girls  of  more  vigorous  organization,  who 
were  disposed  to  laughing  and  play,  and  re- 


72 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


quired  a  strong  hand  to  manage  them ;  —  then 
young  growing  misses  of  every  shade  of  Saxon 
complexion,  and  here  and  there  one  of  more 
Southern  hue :  blondes,  some  of  them  so  trans- 
lucent-looking,  that  it  seemed  as  if  you  could  se 
the  souls  in  their  bodies,  like  bubbles  in  glass,  if 
souls  were  objects  of  sight;  brunettes,  some  with 
rose-red  colors,  and  some  with  that  swarthy  hue 
which  often  carries  with  it  a  heavily-shaded  lip, 
and  which  with  pure  outlines  and  outspoken  re¬ 
liefs,  gives  us  some  of  our  handsomest  women, 
—  the  women  whom  ornaments  of  plain  gold 
adorn  more  than  any  other  parures ;  and  again, 
but  only  here  and  there,  one  with  dark  hair  and 
gray  or  blue  eyes,  a  Celtic  type,  perhaps,  but 
found  in  our  native  stock  occasionally ;  rarest 
of  all,  a  light-haired  girl  with  dark  eyes,  hazel, 
brown,  or  ot  the  color  of  that  mountain-brook 
spoken  of  in  this  chapter,  where  it  ran  through 
shadowy  woodlands.  With  these  were  to  be 
seen  at  intervals  some  of  maturer  years,  full¬ 
blown  flowers  among  the  opening  buds,  with 
that  conscious  look  upon  their  faces  which  so 
many  women  wear  during  the  period  when  they 
never  meet  a  single  man  without  having  his  mon¬ 
osyllable  ready  for  him,  —  tied  as  they  are,  poor 
things !  on  the  rock  of  expectation,  each  of  them 
an  Andromeda  waiting  for  her  Perseus. 

“Who  is  that  girl  in  ringlets,  —  the  fourth  in 
the  third  row  on  the  right  ?  ”  said  Master  Lang^ 
ion. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


/I 

4t  Charlotte  Ann  Wood,”  said  Miss  Darley; — 
*  writes  very  pretty  poems.” 

“  Oh  !  —  And  the  pink  one,  three  seats  from 
her  ?  Looks  bright ;  anything  in  her  ?  ” 

“Emma  Dean, —  day-scholar, —  Squire  Dean’* 
daughter,  —  nice  girl,  —  second  medal  last  year.” 

The  master  asked  these  two  questions  in  a 
careless  kind  of  way,  and  did  not  seem  to  pay 
any  too  much  attention  to  the  answers. 

“  And  who  and  what  is  that,”  he  said,  —  “  sit¬ 
ting  a  little  apart  there,  —  that  strange,  wild-look¬ 
ing  girl  ?  ” 

This  time  he  put  the  real  question  he  wanted 
answered ; — the  other  two  were  asked  at  random, 
as  masks  for  the  third. 

The  lady-teacher’s  face  changed  ;  —  one  would 
have  said  she  was  frightened  or  troubled.  She 
looked  at  the  girl  doubtfully,  as  if  she  might  hear 
the  master’s  question  and  its  answer.  But  the 
girl  did  not  look  up ;  —  she  was  winding  a  gold 
chain  about  her  wrist,  and  then  uncoiling  it,  as  if 
in  a  kind  of  reverie. 

Miss  Darley  drew  close  to  the  master  and 
placed  her  hand  so  as  to  hide  her  lips.  “  Don’t 
Look  at  her  as  if  we  were  talking  about  her,”  she 
whispered  softly  ;  —  that  is  Elsie  Venner.” 


ELSIE  VENNEB. 


H 


CHAPTER  V. 

AN  CLD-FASHIONED  DESCRIPTIVE  CHAPTER. 

It  was  a  comfort  to  get  to  a  place  with  some¬ 
thing  like  society,  with  residences  which  had  pre¬ 
tensions  to  elegance,  with  people  of  some  breeding, 
with  a  newspaper,  and  u  stores 55  to  advertise  in  it, 
and  with  two  or  three  churches  to  keep  each 
other  alive  by  wholesome  agitation.  Rockland 
was  such  a  place. 

Some  of  the  natural  features  of  the  town  have 
been  described  already.  The  Mountain,  of  course, 
was  what  gave  it  its  character,  and  redeemed  it 
from  wearing  the  commonplace  expression  which 
belongs  to  ordinary  country-villages.  Beautiful, 
wild,  invested  with  the  mystery  which  belongs  tc 
untrodden  spaces,  and  with  enough  of  terror  to 
give  it  dignity,  it  had  yet  closer  relations  witb 
the  town  over  which  it  brooded  than  the  passing 
stranger  knew  of.  Thus,  it  made  a  local  climate 
by  cutting  off  the  northern  winds  and  holding  the 
gun’s  heat  like  a  garden-wall.  Peach-trees,  which 
on  the  northern  side  of  the  mountain,  hardly  ever 
came  to  fruit,  ripened  abundant  crons  in  Rock 
and. 


ELSIE  VENEER. 


75 


But  there  was  still  another  relation  between 
the  mountain  and  the  town  at  its  foot,  which 
strangers  were  not  likely  to  hear  alluded  to,  and 
which  was  oftener  thought  of  than  spoken  of  by 
its  inhabitants.  Those  high-impending  forests, — 
K  hangers,”  as  White  of  Selborne  would  have 
called  them,  —  sloping  far  upward  and  backward 
into  the  distance,  had  always  an  air  of  menace 
blended  with  their  wild  beauty.  It  seemed  as  if 
some  heaven-scaling  Titan  had  thrown  his  shag¬ 
gy  robe  over  the  bare,  precipitous  flanks  of  the 
rocky  summit,  and  it  might  at  any  moment  slide 
like  a  garment  flung  carelessly  on  the  nearest 
chance-support,  and,  so  sliding,  crush  the  village 
out  of  being,  as  the  ftossberg  when  it  tumbled 
over  on  the  valley  of  Goldau. 

Persons  have  been  known  to  remove  from  thi. 
place,  after  a  short  residence  in  it,  because  they 
were  haunted  day  and  night  by  the  thought  of 
this  awful  green  wall  piled  up  into  the  air  over 
their  heads.  They  would  lie  awake  of  nights, 
thinking  they  heard  the  muffled  snapping  of 
roots,  as  if  a  thousand  acres  of  the  mountain- 
gide  were  tugging  to  break  away,  like  the  snow 
from  a  house-roof,  and  a  hundred  thousand  trees 
Were  clinging  with  all  their  fibres  to  hold  back 
'he  soil  just  ready  to  peel  away  and  crash  down 
with  aL  its  rocks  and  forest-growths.  And  yet, 
by  one  of  those  strange  contradictions  we  are 
constantly  finding  in  human  nature,  there  were 
natives  of  the  town  who  would  come  back  thirty 


76 


ELSIE  VEKNER. 


or  forty  years  after  leaving  it,  just  to  nestle  andei 
this  same  threatening  mountain-side,  as  old  men 
sun  themselves  against  southward-facing  walls. 
The  old  dreams  and  legends  of  danger  added  to 
the  attraction.  If  the  mountain  should  ever  slide, 
they  had  a  kind  of  feeling  as  if  they  ought  to  be 
there.  It  was  a  fascination  like  that  which  the 
rattlesnake  is  said  to  exert. 

This  comparison  naturally  suggests  the  recol¬ 
lection  of  that  other  source  of  danger  which  was 
an  element  in  the  every-day  life  of  the  Rockland 
people.  The  folks  in  some  of  the  neighboring 
towns  had  a  joke  against  them,  that  a  Rock- 
lander  couldn’t  hear  a  bean-pod  rattle  without 
saying,  “  The  Lord  have  mercy  on  us !  ”  It  is 
very  true,  that  many  a  nervous  old  lady  has  had 
a  terrible  start,  caused  by  some  mischievous 
young  rogue’s  giving  a  sudden  shake  to  one  of 
these  noisy  vegetable  products  in  her  immediate 
vicinity.  Yet,  strangely  enough,  many  persons 
missed  the  excitement  of  the  possibility  of  a  fatal 
bite  in  other  regions,  where  there  were  nothing 
but  black  and  green  and  striped  snakes,  mean 
ophidians,  having  the  spite  of  the  nobler  serpent 
Without  his  venom,  —  poor  crawling  creatures, 
whom  Nature  would  not  trust  with  a  poison-bag. 
Many  natives  of  Rockland  did  unquestionably 
experience  a  certain  gratification  in  this  infinitesi* 
fnal  sense  of  danger.  It  was  noted  that  the  old 
people  retained  their  hearing  longer  than  in  othej 
places  Some  said  it  was  the  softened  climate 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


71 


Dut  others  believed  it  was  owing  to  the  habit  of 
keeping  their  ears  open  whenever  they  were  walk¬ 
ing  through  the  grass  or  in  the  woods.  At  any 
rate,  a  slight  sense  of  danger  is  often  an  agreea¬ 
ble  stimulus.  People  sip  their  creme  de  noyau 
with  a  peculiar  tremulous  pleasure,  because  there 
is  a  bare  possibility  that  it  may  contain  prussic 
acid  enough  to  knock  them  over ;  in  which  case 
they  will  lie  as  dead  as  if  a  thunder-cloud  had 
emptied  itself  into  the  earth  through  their  brain 
and  marrow. 

But  Rockland  had  other  features  which  helped 
to  give  it  a  special  character.  First  of  all,  there 
was  one  grand  street  which  was  its  chief  glory. 
Elm  Street  it  was  called,  naturally  enough,  for  its 
elms  made  a  long,  pointed-arched  gallery  of  it 
through  most  of  its  extent.  No  natural  Gothic 
arch  compares,  for  a  moment,  with  that  formed 
by  two  American  elms,  where  their  lofty  jets 
of  foliage  shoot  across  each  other’s  ascending 
curves,  to  intermingle  their  showery  flakes  of 
green.  When  one  looks  through  a  long  double 
row  of  these,  as  in  that  lovely  avenue  which  the 
poets  of  Yale  remember  so  well, — 

“  0,  could  the  vista  of  iny  life  but  now  as  bright  appear 
As  when  I  first  through  Temple  Street  looked  down  thine  espaliei !  ” 

he  beholds  a  temple  not  built  with  hands,  fairer 
than  any  minster,  with  all  its  clustered  stems  and 
flowering  capitals,  that  ever  grew  in  stone. 

Nobody  knows  New  England  who  is  not  on 
Verms  of  intimacy  with  one  of  its  elms.  The 


7 8  ELSIE  TENNER. 

dm  comes  nearer  to  having  a  soul  than  any  othei 
vegetable  creature  among  us.  It  loves  man  as 
man  loves  it.  It  is  modest  and  patient.  It  has 
a  small  flake  of  a  seed  which  blows  in  every¬ 
where  and  makes  arrangements  for  coming  up 
by-and-by.  So,  in  spring,  one  finds  a  crop  ol 
baby-elms  among  his  carrots  and  parsnips,  very 
weak  and  small  compared  to  those  succulent 
vegetables.  The  baby-elms  die,  most  of  them, 
slain,  unrecognized  or  unheeded,  by  hand  or  hoe, 
as  meekly  as  Herod’s  innocents.  One  of  them 
gets  overlooked,  perhaps,  until  it  has  established 
a  kind  of  right  to  stay.  Three  generations  of 
carrot  and  parsnip-consumers  have  passed  away, 
yourself  among  them,  and  now  let  your  great- 
grandson  look  for  the  baby-elm.  Twenty-two 
feet  of  clean  girth,  three  hundred  and  sixty  feet 
in  the  line  that  bounds  its  leafy  circle,  it  covers 
the  boy  with  such  a  canopy  as  neither  glossy - 
leafed  oak  nor  insect-haunted  linden  ever  lifted 
into  the  summer  skies. 

Elm  Street  was  the  pride  of  Rockland,  but  not 
only  on  account  of  its  Gothic-arched  vista.  In 
this  street  were  most  of  the  great  houses,  or 
%  mansion-houses,”  as  it  was  usual  to  call  them. 
Along  this  street,  also,  the  more  nicely  kept  and 
neatly  painted  dwellings  were  chiefly  congre¬ 
gated.  It  was  the  correct  thing  for  a  Rcckland 
dignitary  to  have  a  house  in  Elm  Street. 

A  New  England  “  mansion-house  ”  is  naturally 
^juare,  with  dormer  windows  projecting  from  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


79 


roof,  wnich  has  a  balustrade  with  turned  posts 
round  it.  It  shows  a  good  breadth  of  front-yard 
before  its  door,  as  its  owner  shows  a  respectable 
expanse  of  clean  shirt-front.  It  has  a  lateral 
margin  beyond  its  stables  and  offices,  as  its  mas¬ 
ter  wears  his  white  wrist-bands  showing  beyond 
his  coat-cuffs.  It  may  not  have  what  can  prop¬ 
erly  be  called  grounds,  but  it  must  have  elbow- 
room,  at  any  rate.  Without  it,  it  is  like  a  man 
who  is  always  tight-buttoned  for  want  of  any 
linen  to  show.  The  mansion-house  which  has 
had  to  button  itself  up  tight  in  fences,  for  want 
of  green  or  gravel  margin,  will  be  advertising  for 
boarders  presently.  The  old  English  pattern  of 
the  New  England  mansion-house,  only  on  a 
somewhat  grander  scale,  is  Sir  Thomas  Abney’s 
place,  where  dear,  good  Dr.  Watts  said  prayers 
for  the  family,  and  wrote  those  blessed  hymns  of 
his  that  sing  us  into  consciousness  in  our  cradles, 
and  come  back  to  us  in  sweet,  single  verses,  be¬ 
tween  the  moments  of  wandering  and  of  stupor, 
when  we  lie  dying,  and  sound  over  us  when  we 
can  no  longer  hear  them,  bringing  grateful  tears 
to  the  hot,  aching  eyes  beneath  the  thick,  black 
veils,  and  carrying  the  holy  calm  with  them 
which  filled  the  good  man’s  heart,  as  he  prayed 
and  sung  under  the  shelter  of  the  old  English 
mansion-house. 

Next  to  the  mansion-houses,  came  the  two-story 
trim,  white-painted,  “  genteel  ”  houses,  whi  ch,  be¬ 
ing  more  gossipy  and  less  nicely  bred,  crowded 


BO 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


close  up  to  the  street,  instead  of  standing  back 
from  it  with  arms  akimbo,  like  the  mansion 
houses.  Their  little  front-yards  were  very  com* 
monly  full  of  lilac  and  syringa  and  other  bushes, 

which  were  allowed  to  smother  the  lower  storv 

•* 

almost  to  the  exclusion  of  light  and  air,  so  that, 
what  with  small  windows  and  small  window- 
panes,  and  the  darkness  made  by  these  choking 
growths  of  shrubbery,  the  front  parlors  of  some 
of  these  houses  were  the  most  tomb-like,  mel¬ 
ancholy  places  that  could  be  found  anywhere 
among  the  abodes  of  the  living.  Their  garnish¬ 
ing  was  apt  to  assist  this  impression.  Large- 
patterned  carpets,  which  always  look  discontented 
in  little  rooms,  hair-cloth  furniture,  black  and 
shiny  as  beetles’  wing  cases,  and  centre-tables, 
with  a  sullen  oil-lamp  of  the  kind  called  astral 
by  our  imaginative  ancestors,  in  the  centre, — 
these  things  were  inevitable.  In  set  piles  round 
the  lamp  was  ranged  the  current  literature  of  the 
day,  in  the  form  of  Temperance  Documents,  un¬ 
bound  numbers  of  one  of  the  Unknown  Public’s 
Magazines  with  worn-out  steel  engravings  and 
high-colored  fashion-plates,  the  Poems  of  a  dis¬ 
tinguished  British  author  whom  it  is  unnecessary 
to  mention,  a  volume  of  sermons,  or  a  novel  or 
two,  or  both,  according  to  the  tastes  of  the  family, 
and  the  Good  Book,  which  is  always  Itself  in  the 
cheapest  and  commonest  company.  The  father 
of  the  family  with  his  hand  in  the  breast  of  his 
coat,  the  mother  of  the  same  in  a  wide-bordered 


ELSIE  VENDER.  8. 

cap,  sometimes  a  print  of  the  Last  Supper,  by  no 
means  Morghen’s,  or  the  Father  of  his  Country, 
or  the  old  General,  or  the  Defender  of  the  Constitu¬ 
tion,  or  an  unknown  clergyman  with  an  open  book 
before  him,  —  these  were  the  usual  ornaments 
of  the  walls,  the  first  two  a  matter  of  rigor,  the 
others  according  to  politics  and  other  tendencies. 

This  intermediate  class  of  houses,  wherever 
one  finds  them  in  New  England  towns,  are  very 
apt  to  be  cheerless  and  unsatisfactory.  The) 
have  neither  the  luxury  of  the  mansion-house  nor 
the  comfort  of  the  farm-house.  They  are  rarely 
kept  at  an  agreeable  temperature.  The  mansion- 
house  has  large  fireplaces  and  generous  chimneys, 
and  is  open  to  the  sunshine.  The  farm-house 
makes  no  pretensions,  but  it  has  a  good  warm 
kitchen,  at  any  rate,  and  one  can  be  comfortable 
there  with  the  rest  of  the  family,  without  fear 
and  without  reproach.  These  lesser  country- 
houses  of  genteel  aspirations  are  much  given  to 
patent  subterfuges  of  one  kind  and  another  to  get 
heat  without  combustion.  The  chilly  parlor  and 
the  slippery  hair-cloth  seat  take  the  life  out  of  the 
warmest  welcome.  If  one  would  make  these 
places  wholesome,  happy,  and  cheerful,  the  first 
precept  would  be,  —  The  dearest  fuel,  plenty  of 
it,  and  let  half  the  heat  go  up  the  chimney.  If 
you  can’t  afford  this,  don’t  try  to  live  in  a  u  gen¬ 
teel  ”  fashion,  but  stick  to  tne  ways  of  the  hon¬ 
est  farm-house. 

There  were  a  good  many  comfortable  farm* 

6 


VOL,.  I. 


82 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


houses  scattered  about  Rockland.  The  best  of 
them  were  something  of  the  following  pattern, 
which  is  too  often  superseded  of  late  by  a  more 
pretentious,  but  infinitely  less  pleasing  kind  of 
rustic  architecture.  A  little  back  from  the  road, 
seated  directly  on  the  green  sod,  rose  a  plain 
wooden  building,  two  stories  in  front,  with  a  long 
roof  sloping  backwards  to  within  a  few  feet  ol 
the  ground.  This,  like  the  “  mansion-house,”  is 
copied  from  an  old  English  pattern.  Cottages 
of  this  model  may  be  seen  in  Lancashire,  for  in¬ 
stance,  always  with  the  same  honest,  homely 
look,  as  if  their  roofs  acknowledged  their  rela¬ 
tionship  to  the  soil  out  of  which  they  sprung. 
The  walls  were  un painted,  but  turned  by  the 
slow  action  of  sun  and  air  and  rain  to  a  quiet 
dove-  or  slate-color.  An  old  broken  mill-stone  at 
the  door,  —  a  well-sweep  pointing  like  a  finger 
to  the  heavens,  which  the  shining  round  of  water 
beneath  looked  up  at  like  a  dark  unsleeping  eye, 
— -  a  single  large  elm  a  little  at  one  side,  —  a  barn 
twice  as  big  as  the  house,  —  a  cattle-yard,  with 

“  The  white  horns  tossing  above  the  wall,”  — 

some  fields,  in  pasture  or  in  crops,  with  low  stone 
walls  round  them,  —  a  row  of  beehives,  —  a  gar¬ 
den-patch,  with  roots,  and  currant-bushes,  and 
many-hued  hollyhocks,  and  swollen-stemmed, 
glob  e-headed,  seedling  onions,  and  marigolds, 
and  flower-de-luces,  and  lady’s-delights,  and  pe¬ 
nnies,  crowding  in  together,  with  southernwood 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


83 


in  the  borders,  and  woodbine  and  hops  and 
morning-glories  climbing  as  they  got  a  chance, 
—  these  were  the  features  by  which  the  Rock¬ 
land-born  children  remembered  the  farm-house, 
when  they  had  grown  to  be  men.  Such  are  the 
recollections  that  come  over  poor  sailor-boys 
crawling  out  on  reeling  yards  to  reef  topsails  as 
their  vessels  stagger  round  the  stormy  Cape  ;  and 
such  are  the  flitting  images  that  make  the  eyes 
of  old  country-born  merchants  look  dim  and 
dreamy,  as  they  sit  in  their  city  palaces,  warm 
with  the  after-dinner  flush  of  the  red  wave  out 
of  which  Memory  arises,  as  Aphrodite  arose  from 
the  green  waves  of  the  ocean. 

Two  meeting-houses  stood  on  two  eminences, 
facing  each  other,  and  looking  like  a  couple  of 
fighting-cocks  with  their  necks  straight  up  in  the 
air,  —  as  if  they  would  flap  their  roofs,  the  next 
thing,  and  crow  out  of  their  upstretched  steeples, 
and  peck  at  each  other’s  glass  eyes  with  their 
sharp-pointed  weathercocks. 

The  first  was  a  good  pattern  of  the  real  old- 
fashioned  New  England  meeting-house.  It  was 
a  large  barn  with  windows,  fronted  by  a  square 
tower  crowned  with  a  kind  of  wooden  bell  in¬ 
verted  and  raised  on  legs,  out  of  which  rose  a 
slender  spire  with  the  sharp-billed  weathercock  at 
its  summit.  Inside,  tall,  square  pews  with  flap¬ 
ping  seats,  and  a  gallery  running  round  three 
sides  of  the  building.  On  the  fourth  side  the 
pulpit,  with  a  huge,  dusty  sounding-board  hang* 


54 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Ing  over  it.  Here  preached  the  Reverend  Piene^ 
pont  Honeywood,  D.  D.,  successor,  after  a  numbei 
of  generations,  to  the  office  and  the  parsonage 
of  the  Reverend  Didymus  Bean,  before  men¬ 
tioned,  but  not  suspected  of  any  of  his  allege 
heresies.  He  held  to  the  old  faith  of  the  Puri¬ 
tans,  and  occasionally  delivered  a  discourse  which 
Was  considered  by  'the  hard-headed  theologians 
of  his  parish  to  have  settled  the  whole  matter 
fully  and  finally,  so  that  now  there  was  a  good 
logical  basis  laid  down  for  the  Millennium,  which 
might  begin  at  once  upon  the  platform  of  his 
demonstrations.  Yet  the  Reverend  Dr.  Honey- 
wood  was  fonder  of  preaching  plain,  practical 
sermons  about  the  duties  of  life,  and  showing  his 
Christianity  in  abundant  good  works  among  his 
people.  It  was  noticed  by  some  few  of  his  flock, 
not  without  comment,  that  the  great  majority  of 
his  texts  came  from  the  Gospels,  and  this  more 
and  more  as  he  became  interested  in  various  be¬ 
nevolent  enterprises  which  brought  him  into  re¬ 
lations  with  ministers  and  kind-hearted  laymen 
of  other  denominations.  He  was  in  fact  a  man 
of  a  very  warm,  open,  and  exceedingly  human 
disposition,  and,  although  bred  by  a  clerical 
father,  whose  motto  was  “Sit  anima  mea  cum 
Puritanis ,”  he  exercised  his  human  faculties  in 
the  harness  of  his  ancient  faith  with  such  free¬ 
dom  that  the  straps  of  it  got  so  loose  they  did 
Dot  interfere  greatly  with  the  circulation  of  the 
Warm  blood  through  his  system.  Once  in  a 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


8* 


while  lie  seemed  to  think  it  necessary  to  come 
out  with  a  grand  doctrinal  sermon,  and  then  he 
Would  lapse  away  for  a  while  into  preaching  on 
men’s  duties  to  each  other  and  to  society,  and  hit 
hard,  perhaps,  at  some  of  the  actual  vices  of  the 
time  and  place,  and  insist  with  such  tenderness 
and  eloquence  on  the  great  depth  and  breadth 
of  true  Christian  love  and  charity,  that  his  oldest 
deacon  shook  his  head,  and  wished  he  had  shown 
as  much  interest  when  he  was  preaching,  three 
Sabbaths  back,  on  Predestination,  or  in  his  dis¬ 
course  against  the  Sabellians.  But  he  was  sound 
in  the  faith  ;  no  doubt  of  that.  Did  he  not  pre¬ 
side  at  the  council  held  in  the  town  of  Tama¬ 
rack,  on  the  other  side  of  the  mountain,  which 
expelled  its  clergyman  for  maintaining  heretical 
doctrines?  As  presiding  officer,  he  did  not  vote, 
of  course,  but  there  was  no  doubt  that  he  was  all 
right ;  he  had  some  of  the  Edwards  blood  in  him, 
and  that  couldn’t  very  well  let  him  go  wrong. 

The  meeting-house  on  the  other  and  opposite 
summit  was  of  a  more  modern  style,  considered 
by  many  a  great  improvement  on  the  old  New 
England  model,  so  that  it  is  not  uncommon  for  a 
country  parish  to  pull  down  its  old  meeting-house 
which  has  been  preached  in  for  a  hundred  years 
or  so,  and  put  up  one  of  these  more  elegant  edi¬ 
fices.  The  new  building  was  in  what  may  be 
called  the  florid  shingle- Gothic  manner.  Its  pin* 
facies  and  crockets  and  other  ornaments  were, 
like  the  body  of  the  building,  all  of  pine  wood 


86 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


*  an  admirable  material,  as  it  is  very  soft  ana 
easily  worked,  and  can  be  painted  of  any  coloi 
desired.  Inside,  the  walls  were  stuccoed  in  imita¬ 
tion  of  stone,  —  first  a  dark -brown  square,  then 
two  light-brown  squares,  then  another  dark-brown 
square,  and  so  on,  to  represent  the  accidental  dif¬ 
ferences  of  shade  always  noticeable  in  the  real 
stones  of  which  walls  are  built.  To  be  sure,  the 
architect  could  not  help  getting  his  party-colored 
squares  in  almost  as  regular  rhythmical  order  as 
those  of  a  chess-board  ;  but  nobody  can  avoid 
doing  things  in  a  systematic  and  serial  way ;  in¬ 
deed,  people  who  wish  to  plant  trees  in  natural 
clumps  know  very  well  that  they  cannot  keep 
from  making  regular  lines  and  symmetrical  fig¬ 
ures,  unless  by  some  trick  or  other,  as  that  one  of 
throwing  a  peck  of  potatoes  up  into  the  air  and 
sticking  in  a  tree  wherever  a  potato  happens  to 
fall.  The  pews  of  this  meeting-house  were  the 
usual  oblong  ones,  where  people  sit  close  together 
with  a  ledge  before  them  to  support  their  hymn- 
books,  liable  only  to  occasional  contact  with  the 
back  of  the  next  pew’s  heads  or  bonnets,  and  a 
place  running  under  the  seat  of  that  pew  where 
hats  could  be  deposited,  —  always  at  the  risk 
of  the  owner,  in  case  of  injury  by  boots  or 
crickets. 

In  this  meeting-house  preached  the  Reverend 
Chauncy  Fairweather,  a  divine  of  the  “Liberal” 
school,  as  it  is  commonly  called,  bred  at  that  fa 
yaous  college  which  used  to  be  thought,  twenty 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


87 


Dr  thirty  years  ago,  to  have  the  monopoly  of  train¬ 
ing  young  men  in  the  milder  forms  of  heresy. 
His  ministrations  were  attended  with  decency, 
Dut  not  followed  with  enthusiasm.  “  The  beauty 
of  virtue  ”  got  to  be  an  old  story  at  last.  “  The 
moral  dignity  of  human  nature  ”  ceased  to  excite 
a  thrill  of  satisfaction,  after  some  hundred  repeti¬ 
tions.  It  grew  to  be  a  dull  business,  this  preach¬ 
ing  against  stealing  and  intemperance,  while  he 
knew  very  well  that  the  thieves  were  prowling 
round  orchards  and  empty  houses,  instead  of  be¬ 
ing  there  to  hear  the  sermon,  and  that  the  drunk¬ 
ards,  being  rarely  church-goers,  get  little  good  by 
the  statistics  and  eloquent  appeals  of  the  preacher. 
Every  now  and  then,  however,  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Fairweather  let  off  a  polemic  discourse  against 
his  neighbor  opposite,  which  waked  his  people  up 
a  little;  but  it  was  a  languid  congregation,  at 
best,  —  very  apt  to  stay  away  from  meeting  in 
the  afternoon,  and  not  at  all  given  to  extra  even¬ 
ing  services.  The  minister,  unlike  his  rival  of 
the  other  side  of  the  way,  was  a  down-hearted 
and  timid  kind  of  man.  He  went  on  preaching 
as  he  had  been  taught  to  preach,  but  he  had  mis¬ 
givings  at  times.  There  was  a  little  Roman 
Catholic  church  at  the  foot  of  the  hill  where  his 
own  was  placed,  which  he  always  had  to  pass  on 
Sundays.  He  could  never  look  on  the  thronging 
multitudes  that  crowded  its  pews  and  aisles  or 
knelt  bare-headed  on  its  steps,  without  a  longing 
to  get  in  among  them  and  go  down  on  his  knees 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


and  enjoy  that  luxury  of  devotional  contact  whicn 
makes  a  worshipping  throng  as  different  from  the 
same  numbers  praying  apart  as  a  bed  of  coals  ia 
from  a  trail  of  scattered  cinders. 

u  Oh,  if  I  could  but  huddle  in  witl  those  pool 
laborers  and  working-women  !  ”  he  would  say  to 
himself.  u  If  I  could  but  breathe  that  atmosphere, 
stifling  though  it  be,  yet  made  holy  by  ancient 
litanies,  and  cloudy  with  the  smoke  of  hallowed 
incense,  for  one  hour,  instead  of  droning  over 
these  moral  precepts  to  my  half-sleeping  congre¬ 
gation  !  ”  The  intellectual  isolation  of  his  sect 
preyed  upon  him ;  for,  of  all  terrible  things  to 
natures  like  his,  the  most  terrible  is  to  belong  to 
a  minority.  No  person  that  looked  at  his  thin 
and  sallow  cheek,  his  sunken  and  sad  eye,  his 
tremulous  lip,  his  contracted  forehead,  or  who 
heard  his  querulous,  though  not  unmusical  voice, 
could  fail  to  see  that  his  life  was  an  uneasy  one, 
that  he  was  engaged  in  some  inward  conflict. 
His  dark,  melancholic  aspect  contrasted  with  his 
seemingly  cheerful  creed,  and  was  all  the  more 
striking,  as  the  worthy  Dr.  Honey  wood,  profess¬ 
ing  a  belief  which  made  him  a  passenger  on 
board  a  shipwrecked  planet,  was  yet  a  most  good- 
humored  and  companionable  gentleman,  whose 
laugh  on  week-days  did  one  as  much  good  to 
listen  to  as  the  best  sermon  he  ever  delivered  on 
ft  Sunday. 

A  mile  or  two  from  the  centre  of  Rockland  was 
a  pretty  little  Episcopal  church,  with  a  roof  like  a 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


89 


wedge  of  cheese,  a  square  tower,  a  stained  win¬ 
dow,  and  a  trained  rector,  who  read  the  service 
with  such  ventral  depth  of  utterance  and  rrredu- 
plication  of  the  rrresonant  letter,  that  his  own 
mother  would  not  have  known  him  for  her  son, 
if  the  good  woman  had  not  ironed  his  surplice 
and  put  it  on  with  her  own  hands. 

There  were  two  public-houses  in  the  place  : 
one  dignified  with  the  name  of  the  Mountain 

o 

House,  somewhat  frequented  by  city-people  in 
the  summer  months,  large-fronted,  three-storied, 
balconied,  boasting  a  distinct  ladies’-drawing- 
room,  and  spreading  a  table  d’hote  of  some  pre¬ 
tensions  ;  the  other,  “  Pollard’s  Tahvern,”  in  the 
common  speech,  —  a  two-story  building,  with  a 
bar-room,  once  famous,  where  there  was  a  great 
smell  of  hay  and  boots  and  pipes  and  all  other 
bucolic-flavored  elements,  —  where  games  of 
checkers  were  played  on  the  back  of  the  bel¬ 
lows  with  red  and  white  kernels  of  corn,  or  with 
beans  and  coffee,  —  where  a  man  slept  in  a  box- 
settle  at  night,  to  wake  up  early  passengers, — 
where  teamsters  came  in,  with  wooden-hand  led 
whips  and  coarse  frocks,  reinforcing  the  bucolic 
flavor  of  the  atmosphere,  and  middle-aged  male 
gossips,  sometimes  including  the  squire  of  the 
neighboring  law-office,  gathered  to  exchange  a 
question  or  two  about  the  news,  and  then  fall 
into  that  solemn  state  of  suspended  animation 
which  the  temperance  bar-rooms  of  modern  days 
produce  in  human  beings,  as  the  Grotta  de]  Cane 


90 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


does  in  dogs  in  the  well-known  experiments  re 
tated  by  travellers.  This  bar-room  used  to  ba 
famous  for  drinking  and  story-telling,  and  some¬ 
times  fighting,  in  old  times.  That  was  when 
there  were  rows  of  decanters  on  the  shelf  behind 
the  bar,  and  a  hissing  vessel  of  hot  water  ready, 
to  make  punch,  and  three  or  four  loggerheads 
(long  irons  clubbed  at  the  end)  were  always  lying 
in  the  fire  in  the  cold  season,  waiting  to  be 
plunged  into  sputtering  and  foaming  mugs  of 
flip,  —  a  goodly  compound,  speaking  according 
to  the  flesh,  made  with  beer  and  sugar,  and  a 
certain  suspicion  of  strong  waters,  over  which  a 
fittle  nutmeg  being  grated,  and  in  it  the  hot  iron 
being  then  allowed  to  sizzle,  there  results  a  pe¬ 
culiar  singed  aroma,  which  the  wise  regard  as  a 
warning  to  remove  themselves  at  once  out  of  the 
reach  of  temptation. 

But  the  bar  of  Pollard’s  Tahvern  no  longer 
presented  its  old  attractions,  and  the  loggerheads 
had  long  disappeared  from  the  fire.  In  place  of 
the  decanters,  were  boxes  containing  u  lozengers,” 
as  they  were  commonly  called,  sticks  of  candy  in 
jars,  cigars  in  tumblers,  a  few  lemons,  grown 
hard-skinned  and  marvellously  shrunken  by  long 
exposure,  but  still  feebly  suggestive  of  possible 
lemonade,  —  the  whole  ornamented  by  festoons 
of  yellow  and  blue  cut  fly-paper.  On  the  front 
shelf  of  the  bar  stood  a  large  German-silver 
pitcher  of  water,  and  scattered  about  were  ill* 
vonditioned  lamps,  with  wicks  that  always  wanted 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


91 


picking,  which  burned  red  and  smoked  a  good 
deal,  and  were  apt  to  go  out  without  any  obvious 
cause,  leaving  strong  reminiscences  of  the  whale- 
fishery  in  the  circumambient  air. 

The  common  school-houses  of  Rockland  were 
dwarfed  by  the  grandeur  of  the  Apollinean  Insti¬ 
tute.  The  master  passed  one  of  them,  in  a  walk 
he  was  taking,  soon  after  his  arrival  at  Rockland 
He  looked  in  at  the  rows  of  desks,  and  recalled 
his  late  experiences.  He  could  not  help  laugh¬ 
ing,  as  he  thought  how  neatly  he  had  knocked  the 
young  butcher  of!'  his  pins. 

“  ‘A  little  science  is  a  dangerous  thing,’ 

as  well  as  a  little  1  learning,’  ”  he  said  to  himself ; 
“only  it’s  dangerous  to  the  fellow  you  try  it  on.” 
And  he  cut  him  a  good  stick,  and  began  climbing 
the  side  of  The  Mountain  to  get  a  look  at  that 
famous  Rattlesnake  Ledge. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


92 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  SUNBEAM!  AND  THE  SHADOW 

The  virtue  of  the  world  is  not  mainly  in  its 
leaders.  In  the  midst  of  the  multitude  which 
follows  there  is  often  something  better  than  in  the 
one  that  goes  before.  Old  generals  wanted  to 
take  Toulon,  but  one  of  their  young  colonels 
showed  them  how.  The  junior  counsel  has  been 
known  not  unfrequently  to  make  a  better  argu¬ 
ment  than  his  senior  fellow,  —  if,  indeed,  he  did 
not  make  both  their  arguments.  Good  ministers 
will  tell  you  they  have  parishioners  who  beat 
them  in  the  practice  of  the  virtues.  A  great 
establishment,  got  up  on  commercial  principles, 
like  the  Apollinean  Institute,  might  yet  be  well 
carried  on,  if  it  happened  to  get  good  teachers. 
And  when  Master  Langdon  came  to  see  its  man¬ 
agement,  he  recognized  that  there  must  be  fidelity 
and  intelligence  somewhere  among  the  instruc¬ 
tors.  It  was  only  necessary  to  look  for  a  moment 
at  the  fair,  open  forehead,  the  still,  tranquil  eye  of 
gentle,  habitual  authority,  the  sweet  gravity  that 
lay  upon  the  lips,  to  hear  the  clear  answers  to  the 
oupils’  questions,  to  notice  how  every  request  had 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


93 


The  force  without  the  form  of  a  command,  and 
the  young  man  could  not  doubt  that  the  good 
genius  of  the  school  stood  before  him  in  the  per¬ 
son  of  Helen  Darley. 

It  was  the  old  story.  A  poor  country- clergy¬ 
man  dies,  and  leaves  a  widow  and  a  daughter. 
In  Old  England  the  daughter  would  have  eaten 
the  bitter  bread  of  a  governess  in  some  rich  fam¬ 
ily.  In  New  England  she  must  keep  a  school. 
So,  rising  from  one  sphere  to  another,  she  at 
length  finds  herself  the  prima  donna  in  the  de¬ 
partment  of  instruction  in  Mr.  Silas  Peckham’s 
educational  establishment. 

What  a  miserable  thing  it  is  to  be  poor! 
She  was  dependent,  frail,  sensitive,  conscien¬ 
tious.  She  was  in  the  power  of  a  hard,  grasp¬ 
ing,  thin-blooded,  tough-fibred,  trading  educator, 
who  neither  knew  nor  cared  for  a  tender  woman’s 
sensibilities,  but  who  paid  her  and  meant  to  have 
his  money’s  worth  out  of  her  brains,  and  as  much 
more  than  his  money’s  worth  as  he  could  get. 
She  was  consequently,  in  plain  English,  over¬ 
worked,  and  an  overworked  woman  is  always  a 
sad  sight,  —  sadder  a  great  deal  than  an  over¬ 
worked  man,  because  she  is  so  much  more  fertile 
in  capacities  of  suffering  than  a  man.  She  has 
so  many  varieties  of  headache,  —  sometimes  as 
if  Jael  were  driving  the  nail  that  killed  Sisera 
into  her  temples,  —  sometimes  letting  her  work 
with  half  her  brain  while  the  other  half  throbs  as 
if  it  would  go  to  pieces, —  sometimes  tightening 


94 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


round  the  brows  as  if  her  cap-band  were  a  ring 
of  iron,  —  and  then  her  neuralgias,  and  her  back 
aches,  and  her  fits  of  depression,  in  which  she 
thinks  she  is  nothing  and  less  than  nothing,  and 
those  paroxysms  which  men  speak  slightingly  of 
as  hysterical,  —  convulsions,  that  is  all,  only  not 
commonly  fatal  ones,  —  so  many  trials  which 
belong  to  her  fine  and  mobile  structure,  —  that 
she  is  always  entitled  to  pity,  when  she  is  placed 
in  conditions  which  develop  her  nervous  tenden¬ 
cies. 

The  poor  young  lady’s  work  had,  of  course, 
been  doubled  since  the  departure  of  Master  Lang- 
don’s  predecessor.  Nobody  knows  what  the  wea¬ 
riness  of  instruction  is,  as  soon  as  the  teacher’s 
faculties  begin  to  be  overtasked,  but  those  who 
have  tried  it.  The  relays  of  fresh  pupils,  each 
new  set  with  its  exhausting  powers  in  full  ac¬ 
tion,  coming  one  after  another,  take  out  all  the 
reserved  forces  and  faculties  of  resistance  from 
the  subject  of  their  draining  process. 

The  day’s  work  was  over,  and  it  was  late  in 
the  evening,  when  she  sat  down,  tired  and  faint, 
with  a  great  bundle  of  girls’  themes  or  compo¬ 
sitions  to  read  over  before  she  could  rest  hex 
weary  head  on  the  pillow  of  her  narrow  trundle- 
bed,  and  forget  for  a  while  the  treadmill  stair  of 
labor  she  was  daily  climbing. 

How  she  dreaded  this  most  forlorn  of  all  a 
teacher’s  tasks !  She  was  conscientious  in  hei 
duties,  and  would  insist  on  reading  every  sen- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


93 


tence,  —  there  was  no  saying  where  she  might 
iind  faults  of  grammar  or  bad  spelling.  There 
might  have  been  twenty  or  thirty  of  these  themes 
in  the  bundle  before  her.  Of  course  she  kne  w 
pretty  well  the  leading  sentiments  they  could  con¬ 
tain  :  that  beauty  was  subject  to  the  accidents 
of  time ;  that  wealth  was  inconstant,  and  exist¬ 
ence  uncertain  ;  that  virtue  was  its  own  reward ; 
that  youth  exhaled,  like  the  dewdrop  from  the 
flower,  ere  the  sun  had  reached  its  meridian ;  that 
life  was  o’ershadowed  with  trials  ;  that  the  lessons 
of  virtue  instilled  by  our  beloved  teachers  were  to 
be  our  guides  through  all  our  future  career.  The 
imagery  employed  consisted  principally  of  roses, 
lilies,  birds,  clouds,  and  brooks,  with  the  cele¬ 
brated  comparison  of  wayward  genius  to  a  me¬ 
teor.  Who  does  not  know  the  small,  slanted, 
Italian  hand  of  these  girls’- compositions,  —  their 
stringing  together  of  the  good  old  traditional 
copy-book  phrases,  their  occasional  gushes  of 
sentiment,  their  profound  estimates  of  the  world, 
sounding  to  the  Did  folks  that  read  them  as 
the  experience  of  a  bantam -pullet’s  last-hatched 
young  one  with  the  chips  of  its  shell  on  its  head 
would  sound  to  a  Mother  Cary’s  chicken,  who 
knew  the  great  ocean  with  all  its  typhoons  and 
tornadoes  ?  Yet  every  now  and  then  one  is  Table 
to  be  surprised  with  strange  clairvoyant  flashes, 
at  can  hardly  be  explained,  except  by  the  mys¬ 
terious  inspiration  wnich  every  now  and  then 
seizes  a  young  girl  and  exalts  her  intelligence, 


96 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


just  as  hysteria  in  other  instances  exalts  the  sen" 
Bibility,  —  a  little  something  of  that  which  made 
Joan  of  Arc,  and  the  Burney  girl  who  prophesied 
u  Evelina,”  and  the  Davidson  sisters.  In  the 
midst  of  these  commonplace  exercises  which  Miss 
Darley  read  over  so  carefully  were  two  or  three 
that  had  something  of  individual  flavor  about 
them,  and  here  and  there  there  was  an  image 
or  an  epithet  which  showed  the  footprint  of  a 
passionate  nature,  as  a  fallen  scarlet  feather 
marks  the  path  the  wild  flamingo  has  trodden. 

The  young  lady  teacher  read  them  with  a  cer¬ 
tain  indifference  of  manner,  as  one  reads  proofs, 

—  noting  defects  of  detail,  but  not  commonly 
arrested  by  the  matters  treated  of.  Even  Miss 
Charlotte  Ann  Wood’s  poem,  beginning 

“  How  sweet  at  evening’s  balmy  hour,” 

did  not  excite  her.  She  marked  the  inevitable 
false  rhyme  of  Cockney  and  Yankee  beginners, 
morn  and  dawn ,  and  tossed  the  verses  on  the  pile 
of  papers  she  had  finished.  She  was  looking  over 
some  of  the  last  of  them  in  a  rather  listless  way, 

—  for  the  poor  thing  was  getting  sleepy  in  spite  of 
herself,  —  when  she  came  to  one  which  seemed 
to  rouse  her  attention,  and  lifted  her  drooping 
lids.  She_Iaoked  at  it  a  moment  before  she 
Would  touch  it.  Then  she  took  hold  of  it  by 
one  corner  and  slid  it  off  from  the  rest.  One 
Would  have  said  she  was  afraid  of  it,  or  had  som$ 
Undefined  antipathy  which  made  it  hateful  to  hot 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


97 


Such  odd  fancies  are  common  enough  in  young 
persons  in  her  nervous  state.  Many  of  these 
young  people  will  jump  up  twenty  times  a  day 
and  run  to  dabble  the  tips  of  their  fingers  in 
Water,  after  touching  the  most  inoffensive  objects. 

This  composition  was  written  in  a  singular 
sharp-pointed,  long,  slender  hand,  on  a  kind 
of.  wavy,  ribbed  paper.  There  was  something 
strangely  suggestive  about  the  look  of  it,  —  but 
exactly  of  what,  Miss  Barley  either  could  not  or 
did  not  try  to  think.  The  subject  of  the  paper 
was  The  Mountain,  —  the  composition  being  a 
sort  of  descriptive  rhapsody.  It  showed  a  start¬ 
ling  familiarity  with  some  of  the  savage  scenery 
of  the  region.  One  would  have  said  that  the 
writer  must  have  threaded  its  wildest  solitudes 
by  the  light  of  the  moon  and  stars  as  well  as  by 
day.  As  the  teacher  read  on,  her  color  changed, 
and  a  kind  of  tremulous  agitation  came  over  her. 
There  were  hints  in  this  strange  paper  she  did  not 
know  what  to  make  of.  There  was  something  in 
its  descriptions  and  imagery  that  recalled, —  Miss 
Darley  could  not  say  what,  —  but  it  made  her 
frightfully  nervous.  Still  she  could  not  help 
'-eading,  till  she  came  to  one  passage  which  so 
agitated  her,  that  the  tired  and  overwearied  girl’s 
self-control  left  her  entirely.  She  sobbed  once  or 
-fwice,  then  laughed  convulsively,  and  flung  her¬ 
self  on  the  bed,  where  she  worked  out  a  set  hys¬ 
teric  spasm  as  she  best  might,  without  anybody 
io  rub  her  hands  and  see  that  she  did  not  hur* 

VOL*  I.  7 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


68 

herself*  By  -and-by  she  got  quiet,  rose  and  went 
to  her  book-case,  took  down  a  volume  of  Cole- 
f  ridge,  and  read  a  short  time,  and  so  to  bed,  to 
sleep  and  wake  from  time  to  time  with  a  sudden 
start  out  of  uneasy  dreams. 

Perhaps  it  is  of  no  great  consequence  what  ii 
urns  in  the  composition  which  set  her  off  into 
this  nervous  paroxysm.  She  was  in  such  a 
state  that  almost  any  slight  agitation  would 
have  brought  on  the  attack,  and  it  was  the  ac¬ 
cident  of  her  transient  excitability,  very  proba- 
bly,  which  made  a  trifling  cause  the  seeming  oc¬ 
casion  of  so  much  disturbance.  The  theme  was 
signed,  in  the  same  peculiar,  sharp,  slender  hand, 
E.  Venner ,  and  was,  of  course,  written  by  that 
wild-looking  girl  who  had  excited  the  master’s 
curiosity  and  prompted  his  question,  as  before 
mentioned. 

The  next  morning  the  lady-teacher  looked  pale 
and  wearied,  naturally  enough,  but  she  was  in  her 
place  at  the  usual  hour,  and  Master  Langdon 
in  his  own.  The  girls  had  not  yet  entered  the 
school-room. 

“  You  have  been  ill,  I  am  afraid,”  said  Mr. 
Bernard. 

“  I  was  not  well  yesterday,”  she  answered.  “  1 
had  a  worry  and  a  kind  of  fright.  It  is  so  dread¬ 
ful  to  have  the  charge  of  all  these  young  souls 
and  bodies  Every  young  girl  ought  to  walk 
locked  close,  arm  in  arm,  between  two  guar¬ 
dian  angels.  Sometimes  I  faint  almost  witfc 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


99 


the  thought  of  all  that  I  ought  to  do,  and  of  my 
own  weakness  and  wants.  —  Tell  me,  are  there 
not  natures  born  so  out  of  parallel  with  the  lines 
of  natural  law  that  nothing  short  of  a  miracle  can 
bring  them  right  ?  ” 

Mr.  Bernard  had  speculated  somewhat,  as  all 
•thoughtful  persons  of  his  profession  are  forced 
to  do,  on  the  innate  organic  tendencies  with 
which'  individuals,  families,  and  races  are  born. 
He  replied,  therefore,  with  a  smile,  as  one  to 
whom  the  question  suggested  a  very  familiar 
class  of  facts. 

i{  Why,  of  course.  Each  of  us  is  only  the  foot¬ 
ing-up  of  a  double  column  of  figures  that  goes 
back  to  the  first  pair.  Every  unit  tells,  —  and 
some  of  them  are  plus ,  and  some  minus.  If  the 
columns  don’t  add  up  right,  it  is  commonly  be¬ 
cause  we  can’t  make  out  all  the  figures.  I  don’t 
mean  to  say  that  something  may  not  be  added 
by  Nature  to  make  up  for  losses  and  keep  the 
race  to  its  average,  but  we  are  mainly  nothing 
but  the  answer  to  a  long  sum  in  addition  and 
subtraction.  No  doubt  there  are  people  born 
with  impulses  at  every  possible  angle  to  the 
parallels  of  Nature,  as  you  call  them.  If  they 
happen  to  cut  these  at  right  angles,  of  course 
they  are  beyond  the  reach  of  common  influ- 
tnces.  Slight  obliquities  are  what  we  have  most 
to  do  with  in  education.  Penitentiaries  and  in¬ 
sane  asylums  take  care  of  most  of  the  right-angle 
cases. —  I  am  afraid  I  ha^e  put  it  too  much  like 


too 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


a  piofessor,  and  I  am  only  a  student,  you  know 
Pray,  what  set  you  to  asking  me  this  ?  Any 
strange  cases  among  the  scholars  ?  ” 

The  meek  teacher’s  blue  eyes  met  the  lumi« 
nous  glance  that  came  with  the  question.  She, 
too,  was  of  gentle  blood,  —  not  meaning  by  that 
that  she  was  of  any  noted  lineage,  but  that  she 
came  of  a  cultivated  stock,  never  rich,  but  long 
trained  to  intellectual  callings.  A  thousand  de¬ 
cencies,  amenities,  reticences,  graces,  which  no 
one  thinks  of  until  he  misses  them,  are  the  tra¬ 
ditional  right  of  those  who  spring  from  such 
families.  And  when  two  persons  of  this  excep¬ 
tional  breeding  meet  in  the  midst  of  the  com¬ 
mon  multitude,  they  seek  each  other’s  company 
at  once  by  the  natural  law  of  elective  affinity. 
It  is  wonderful  how  men  and  women  know  theii 
peers.  If  two  stranger  queens,  sole  survivors  of 
two  shipwrecked  vessels,  were  cast,  half-naked, 
on  a  rock  together,  each  would  at  once  address 
the  other  as  “  Our  Royal  Sister.” 

Helen  Harley  looked  into  the  dark  eyes  of 
Bernard  Langdon  glittering  with  the  light  which 
.‘lashed  from  them  with  his  question.  Not  as 
those  foolish,  innocent  country-girls  of  the  small 
village  did  she  look  into  them,  to  be  fascinated 
and  bewildered,  but  to  sound  them  with  a  calm 
steadfast  purpose.  “  A  gentleman,”  she  said  to 
herself,  as  she  read  his  expression  and  his  feat¬ 
ures  with  a  woman’s  rapid,  but  exhausting 
glance.  u  A  lady,”  he  said  to  himself,  as  ho 


ELSIE  YENNEK. 


101 


met  her  questioning  look,  —  so  brief,  so  quiet, 
yet  so  assured,  as  of  one  whom  necessity  had 
taught  to  read  faces  quickly  without  offence,  as 
children  read  the  faces  of  parents,  as  wives  read 
the  faces  of  hard-souled  husbands.  All  this  was 
bat  a  few  seconds’  work,  and  yet  the  main  point" 
was  settled.  If  there  had  been  any  vulgar  curi¬ 
osity  or  coarseness  of  any  kind  lurking  in  his  ex¬ 
pression,  she  would  have  detected  it.  If  she  had 
not  lifted  her  eyes  to  his  face  so  softly  and  kept 
them  there  so  calmly  and  withdrawn  them  so 
quietly,  he  would  not  have  said  to  himself, 
“  She  is  a  lady”  for  that  word  meant  a  good 
deal  to  the  descendant  of  the  courtly  Went¬ 
worths  and  the  scholarly  Langdons. 

u  There  are  strange  people  everywhere,  Mr. 
Langdon,”  she  said,  “  and  I  don’t  think  our 
school-room  is  an  exception.  I  am  glad  you 
believe  in  the  force  of  transmitted  tendencies. 
It  would  break  my  heart,  if  I  did  not  think  that 
there  are  faults  beyond  the  reach  of  everything 
but  God’s  special  grace.  I  should  die,  if  I 
thought  that  my  negligence  or  incapacity  was 
alone  responsible  for  the  errors  and  sins  of  those 
Xhave  charge  of.  Yet  there  are  mysteries  I  do 
riot  know  how  to  account  for.”  She  looked  all 
found  the  school-room,  and  then  said,  in  a  whis¬ 
per,  “  Mr.  Langdon,  we  had  a  girl  that  stole,  in 
\he  school,  not  ?ong  ago.  Worse  than  that,  we 
!»ad  a  girl  who  tried  to  set  us  on  fire.  Children  v 
af  good  people,  both  of  thenL,  And  we  have  a 
girl  now  that  frightens  me  so”—— 


102 


ELSIE  VESNER. 


The  door  opened,  and  three  misses  came  in  to 
take  their  seats :  three  types,  as  it  happened,  of 
certain  classes,  into  which  it  would  not  have  been 
difficult  to  distribute  the  greater  number  of  the 
\j  girls  in  the  school.  —  Hannah  Martin.  Four¬ 
teen  years  and  three  months  old.  Short-necked 
thick-waisted,  round-cheeked,  smooth,  vacant  fore* 
head,  large,  dull  eyes.  Looks  good-natured,  with 
little  other  expression.  Three  buns  in  her  bag, 
and  a  large  apple.  Has  a  habit  of  attacking 
her  provisions  in  school-hours.  —  Rosa  Milburn. 
Sixteen.  Brunette,  with  a  rareripe  flush  in  her 
cheeks.  Color  comes  and  goes  easily.  Eyes 
wandering,  apt  to  be  downcast.  Moody  at 
times.  Said  to  be  passionate,  if  irritated.  Fin¬ 
ished  in  high  relief.  Carries  shoulders  well  back 
and  walks  well,  as  if  proud  of  her  woman’s  life, 
with  a  slight  rocking  movement,  being  one  of  the 
wide-flanged  pattern,  but  seems  restless,  —  a  hard 
girl  to  look  after.  Has  a  romance  in  her  pocket, 
which  she  means  to  read  in  school-time.  —  Char¬ 
lotte  Ann  Wood .  Fifteen.  The  poetess  before 
mentioned.  Long,  light  ringlets,  pallid  com¬ 
plexion,  blue  eyes.  Delicate  child,  half  unfold¬ 
ed.  Gentle,  but  languid  and  despondent.  Does 
not  go  much  with  the  other  girls,  but  reads  a 
good  deal,  especially  poetry,  underscoring  favor- 
t&  passages.  Writes  a  great  many  verses,  very 
fast,  not  very  correctly ;  full  of  the  usual  human 
gentiments,  expressed  in  the  accustomed  phrases 
Undervitalized.  Sensibilities  not  covered  witk 


ELSIE  VENjSTER. 


103 


their  normal  integuments.  A  negative  condi« 
fcion,  often  confounded  with  genius,  and  some¬ 
times  running  into  it.  Young  people  who  fall 
out  of  line  through  weakness  of  the  active  facu.- 
ties  are  often  confounded  with  those  who  step  out; 
of  it  through  strength  of  the  intellectual  ones. 

The  girls  kept  coming  in,  one  after  another,  oi 
in  pairs  or  groups,  until  the  school-room  was 
nearly  full.  Then  there  was  a  little  pause,  and  a 
light  step  was  heard  in  the  passage.  The  lady- 
teacher’s  eyes  turned  to  the  door,  and  the  master’s 
followed  them  in  the  same  direction. 

A  girl  of  about  seventeen  entered.  She  was 
tall  and  slender,  but  rounded,  with  a  peculiar  un¬ 
dulation  of  movement,  such  as  one  sometimes 
sees  in  perfectly  untutored  country-girls,  whom 
Nature,  the  queen  of  graces,  has  taken  in  hand, 
but  more  commonly  in  connection  with  the  very 
highest  breeding  of  the  most  thoroughly  trained 
society.  She  was  a  splendid  scowling  beauty, 
black-browed,  with  a  flash  ofwvhite  teeth  which 
was  always  like  a  surprise  when  her  lips_parfect7 
She  wore  a  checkered  dress,  of  a  curious  jiattern, 
and  a  camePsdiairYcarf  twisted  a  littlefantasti- 
sally  about  her.  She  went  to  her  seat,  which  she 
had  moved  a  short  distance  apart  from  the  rest, 
and,  sitting  down,  began  playing  listlessly  with 
jier  goldjdiain,  as  was  a  common  habit  with  her, 
^oiling  it  anfljincoiling  it  about  her  slender  wrist, 
and  braiding  it  in  with  her  long,  delicate  fingers. 
Presently  she  looked  up.  Black,  piercing  eyes,  not 


J 


104 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


large,  —  a  low  forehead,  as  low  as  that  of  Clytie 
in  the  Townley  bust,  —  black  hair^  twisted  in 
heavy  braids,  —  a  face  that  one  could  not  help 
looking  at  for  its  beauty,  yet  tEaT'bne  wanted  to 
look  away  from  for  something  in  its  expression, 
and  could  not  for  those  diamond  eyes.  They 
were  fixed  on  the  lady-teacher  now.  The  latter 
turned  her  own  away,  and  let  them  wander  over 
the  other  scholars.  But  they  could  not  help  com¬ 
ing  back  again  for  a  single  glance  at  the  wild 
beauty.  The  diamond  eyes  were  on  her  still. 
She  turned  the  leaves  of  several  of  her  books,  as 
if  in  search  of  some  passage,  and,  when  she 
thought  she  had  waited  long  enough  to  be  safe, 
once  more  stole  a  quick  look  at  the  dark  girl. 
The  diamond  eyes  were  still  upon  her.  She  put 
her  kerehieFTo  her  forehead,  which  had  grown 
slightly  moist ;  she  sighed  once,  almost  shivered, 
for  she  felt  cold  ;  then,  following  some  ill-defined 
impulse,  which  she  could  not  resist,  she  left  her 
place  and  went  to  the  young  girl’s  desk. 

“  What  do  you  want  of  me ,  Elsie  Venner  ?  ”  It 
was  a  strange  question  to  put,  for  the  girl  had 
not  signified  that  she  wished  the  teacher  to  com 
to  her. 

“  Nothing,”  she  said.  “  I  thought  Bcqixjd  make 
,  ou  come.”  The  girl  spoke  in  a  low  tone,  a  kind 
of  lialf-whisper.  She  did  not  lisp,  yet  her  articu¬ 
lation  of  one  or  two  consonants  was  not  abso- 
utely  perfect. 

“  Where  did  you  get  that  flower,  Elsie  ?  ”  saio 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


105 


Miss  Darley.  It  was  a  rare  alpine  flower,  which 
w as  found  only  m  one_spot  among  the  rocks  of 
The  Mountain. 

u  Where  it  grew,”  said  Elsie  Venner.  “  Takp 
it”  The  teacher  could  not  refuse  her.  The  giiTa 
finger-tips  touched  hers  as  she  took  it.  IIow  cold 
they  were  for  a  girl  of  such  an  organization ! 

The  teacher  went  back  to  her  seat.  She  made 
an  excuse  for  quitting  the  school-room  soon  after¬ 
wards.  The  first  thing  she  did  was  to  fling  the 
flower  into  her  fireplace  and  rake  the  ashes  over 
it.  The  second  was  to  wash  the  tips  of  her  fin¬ 
gers,  as  if  she  had  been  another  Lady  Macbeth. 
A  poor,  overtasked,  nervous  creature,  —  we  must 
not  think  too  much  of  her  fancies. 

After  school  was  done,  she  finished  the  talk 
with  the  master  which  had  been  so  suddenly  in¬ 
terrupted.  There  were  things  spoken  of  which 
may  prove  interesting  by-and-by,  but  there  are 
other  matters  we  must  first  attend  to. 


O'—* 


t06 


ELSIE  YENNED 


CHAPTER  VII. 

THE  EVENT  OF  TnE  SEASON. 

u  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Colonel  Sprowle’s  compliments 
to  Mr.  Langdon  and  requests  the  pleasure  of  his 
company  at  a  social  entertainment  on  Wednesday 
evening  next. 

“  Elm  St.  Monday .” 

On  paper  of  a  pinkish  color  and  musky  smell, 
with  a  large  at  the  top,  and  an  embossed  bor¬ 
der  Envelop  adherent,  not  sealed.  Addressed, 

- Langdon  Esq. 

Present . 

Brought  by  H.  Frederic  Sprowle,  youngest  son 
of  the  Colonel,  — the  H.  of  course  standing  for  the 
paternal  Hezekiah,  put  in  tc  please  the  father,  and 
reduced  to  its  initial  to  please  the  mother,  she 
having  a  marked  preference  for  Frederic.  Boy 
directed  to  wait  for  an  answer. 

“  Mr.  Langdon  has  the  pleasure  of  accepting 
Mr,  and  Mrs.  Colonel  SproAvle’s  polite  invitation 
for  Wednesday  evening.’, 

On  plain  paper,  sealed  with  an  initial. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


107 


In  walking  along  the  main  street,  Mr.  Bernard 
had  noticed  a  large  house  of  some  pretensions  to 
architectural  display,  namely,  unnecessarily  pro¬ 
jecting  eaves,  giving  it  a  mushroomy  aspect, 
wooden  mouldings  at  various  available  points, 
and  a  grandiose  arched  portico.  It  looked  a  little 
swaggering  by  the  side  of  one  or  two  of  the  man¬ 
sion-houses  that  were  not  far  from  it,  was  painted 
too  bright  for  Mr.  Bernard’s  taste,  had  rather  too 
fanciful  a  fence  before  it,  and  had  some  fruit-trees 
planted  in  the  front-yard,  which  to  this  fastidious 
young  gentleman  implied  a  defective  sense  of  the 
fitness  of  things,  not  promising  in  people  who 
lived  in  so  large  a  house,  with  a  mushroom  roof 
and  a  triumphal  arch  for  its  entrance. 

This  place  was  known  as  “  Colonel  Sprowle’s 
villa,”  (genteel  friends,)  —  as  “  the  elegant  resi¬ 
dence  of  our  distinguished  fellow-citizen,  Colonel 
Sprowle,”  (Rockland  Weekly  Universe,)  —  as  “  the 
neew  haouse,”  (old  settlers,)  —  as  “  Spraowle’s 
Folly,”  (disaffected  and  possibly  envious  neigh¬ 
bors,)  —  and  in  common  discourse,  as  11  the  Colo¬ 
nel’s.” 

Hezekiah  Sprowle,  Esquire,  Colonel  Sprowle 
of  the  Commonwealth’s  Militia,  was  a  retired 
“merchant.”  An  India  merchant  he  might,  per¬ 
haps,  have  been  properly  called;  for  he  used  to 
deal  in  West  India  goods,  such  as  coffee,  sugar, 
and  molasses,  not  to  speak  of  rum,  —  also  in  tea, 
salt  fish,  butter  and  cheese,  oil  and  candles,  dried 
fruit,  agricultural  “p’doose”  generally,  industrial 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


108 

products,  such  as  boots  and  shoes,  and  various 
kinds  of  iron  and  wooden  ware,  and  at  one  end 
of  the  establishment  in  calicoes  and  other  stuffs, 
—  to  say  nothing  of  miscellaneous  objects  of  the 
most  varied  nature,  from  sticks  of  candy,  whicS 
tempted  in  the  smaller  youth  with  coppers  in 
their  fists,  up  to  ornamental  articles  of  appaie^ 
pocket-books,  breast-pins,  gilt-edged  Bibles,  sta* 
tionery,  • — in  short,  everything  which  was  like  to 
prove  seductive  to  the  rural  population.  The 
Colonel  had  made  money  in  trade,  and  also  by 
matrimony.  He  had  married  Sarah,  daughter 
and  heiress  of  the  late  Tekel  Jordan,  Esq.,  an  old 
miser,  who  gave  the  town-clock,  which  carries  his 
name  to  posterity  in  large  gilt  letters  as  a  gener¬ 
ous  benefactor  of  his  native  place.  In  due  time 
the  Colonel  reaped  the  reward  of  well-placed  af¬ 
fections.  When  his  wife’s  inheritance  fell  in,  he 
thought  he  had  money  enough  to  give  up  trade, 
and  therefore  sold  out  his  “  store,”  called  in  some 
dialects  of  the  English  language  shop,  and  his 
business. 

Life  became  pretty  hard  work  to  him,  of  course, 
as  soon  as  he  had  nothing  particular  to  do.  Coun¬ 
try  people  with  money  enough  not  to  have  to 
work  are  in  much  more  danger  than  city  people 
in  the  same  condition.  They  get  a  specific  look 
and  character,  which  are  the  same  in  all  the  vil¬ 
lages  where  one  studies  them.  They  very  com 
monly  fall  into  a  routine,  the  basis  of  which  ia 
going  to  some  lounging-place  or  other,  a  bar-room, 


ELSIE  VENEER.  109 

a  reading-room,  or  something  of  the  kind.  They 
grow  slovenly  in  dress,  and  wear  the  same  hat  for¬ 
ever.  They  have  a  feeble  curiosity  for  news  per¬ 
haps,  which  they  take  daily  as  a  man  takes  his 
bitters,  and  then  fall  silent  and  think  they  are 
hinking.  But  the  mind  goes  out  under  this  regi¬ 
men,  like  a  fire  without  a  draught ;  and  it  is  not 
very  strange,  if  the  instinct  of  mental  self-preser¬ 
vation  drives  them  to  brandy-and-water,  which 
makes  the  hoarse  whisper  of  memory  musical  for 
a  few  brief  moments,  and  puts  a  weak  leer  of 
promise  on  the  features  of  the  hollow-eyed  future. 
The  Colonel  was  kept  pretty  well  in  hand  as  yet 
by  his  wife,  and  though  it  had  happened  to  him 
once  or  twice  to  come  home  rather  late  at  night 
with  a  curious  tendency  to  say  the  same  thing 
twice  and  even  three  times  over,  it  had  always 
been  in  very  cold  weather,  —  and  everybody 
knows  that  no  one  is  safe  to  drink  a  couple  of 
glasses  of  wine  in  a  warm  room  and  go  suddenly 
out  into  the  cold  air. 

Miss  Matilda  Sprowle,  sole  daughter  of  the 
house,  had  reached  the  age  at  which  young  ladies 
are  supposed  in  technical  language  to  have  come 
out ,  and  thereafter  are  considered  to  be  in  com * 
party . 

“  There’s  one  piece  o’  goods,”  said  the  Colonel 
to  his  wife,  “  that  we  ha’n’t  disposed  of,  nor  got  a 
'..ustomer  for  yet.  That’s  Matildy.  I  don’t  mean 
to  set  her  up  at  vaandoo.  I  guess  she  can  hava 
her  pick  of  a  dozen.” 


no 


ELSIE  VENN  EE. 


u  She  ’s  never  seen  anybody  yet,”  said  Mrs 
Sprowle,  who  had  had  a  certain  project  for  some 
time,  but  had  kept  quiet  about  it.  “  Let ’s  have  a 
party,  and  give  her  a  chance  to  show  herself  and 
Bee  some  of  the  young  folks.” 

The  Colonel  was  not  very  clear-headed,  and  he 
thought,  naturally  enough,  that  the  party  was  his 
own  suggestion,  because  his  remark  led  to  the 
first  starting  of  the  idea.  He  entered  into  the 
plan,  therefore,  with  a  feeling  of  pride  as  well  as 
pleasure,  and  the  great  project  was  resolved  upon 
in  a  family  council  without  a  dissentient  voice. 
This  was  the  party,  then,  to  which  Mr.  Bernard 
was  going.  The  town  had  been  full  of  it  for  a 
week.  “Everybody  was  asked.”  So  everybody 
said  that  was  invited.  But  how  in  respect  of 
those  who  were  not  asked  ?  If  it  had  been  one 
of  the  old  mansion-houses  that  was  giving  a 
party,  the  boundary  between  the  favored  and  the 
slighted  families  would  have  been  known  pretty 
well  beforehand,  and  there  would  have  been  no 
great  amount  of  grumbling.  But  the  Colonel, 
for  all  his  title,  had  a  forest  of  poor  relations  and 
a  brushwood  swamp  of  shabby  friends,  for  he  had 
scrambled  up  to  fortune,  and  now  the  time  was 
some  when  he  must  define  his  new  social  posi 
don. 

This  is  always  an  awkward  business  in  town 
or  country.  An  exclusive  alliance  between  twc 
powers  is  often  the  same  thing  as  a  declaration 
[>f  war  against  a  third.  Kockland  was  soon 


ELSIE  VENNER.  Ill 

gplit  into  a  triumphant  minority,  invited  to  Mrs. 
Sprowle’s  party,  and  a  great  majority,  uninvited, 
of  which  the  fraction  just  on  the  border  line  be¬ 
tween  recognized  “  gentility  ”  and  the  level  of  the 
ungloved  masses  was  in  an  active  state  of  excite¬ 
ment  and  indignation. 

“  Who  is  she,  I  should  like  to  know  ?  ”  saia 
Mrs.  Say  more,  the  tailor’s  wife.  “  There  was 
plenty  of  folks  in  Rockland  as  good  as  ever  Sally 
Jordan  was,  if  she  had  managed  to  pick  up  a  mer¬ 
chant.  Other  folks  could  have  married  merchants, 
if  their  families  wasn’t  as  wealthy  as  them  old 
skinflints  that  willed  her  their  money,”  etc.  etc. 
Mrs.  Saymore  expressed  the  feeling  of  many  be¬ 
side  herself.  She  had,  however,  a  special  right  to 
be  proud  of  the  name  she  bore.  Her  husband  was 
own  cousin  to  the  Say  mores  of  Freestone  Ave¬ 
nue  (who  write  the  name  Seymour ,  and  claim  to 
be  of  the  Duke  of  Somerset’s  family,  showing  a 
clear  descent  from  the  Protector  to  Edward  Sey¬ 
mour,  (1630,)  —  then  a  jump  that  would  break  a 
herald’s  neck  to  one  Seth  Saymore,  (1783,)  — 
from  whom  to  the  head  of  the  present  family  the 
line  is  clear  again).  Mrs.  Saymore,  the  tailor’s 
wife,  was  not  invited,  because  her  husband  mended 
clothes.  If  he  had  confined  himself  strictly  to 
making'  them,  it  would  have  put  a  different  face 
upon  the  matter. 

The  landlord  of  the  Mountain  House  and  his 
lady  were  invited  to  Mrs.  Sprowle’s  party.  No4 
10  the  landlord  of  Pollard's  Tahvern  and  his  lady 


112 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


Whereupon  the  latter  vowed  that  they  would 
have  a  party  at  their  house  too,  and  made  ar¬ 
rangements  for  a  dance  of  twenty  or  thirty  couples, 
to  be  followed  by  an  entertainment.  Tickets  to 
this  “  Social  Ball”  were  soon  circulated,  and, 
being  accessible  to  all  at  a  moderate  price,  ad» 
mission  to  the  “  Elegant  Supper  ”  included,  this 
second  festival  promised  to  be  as  merry,  if  not  as 
select,  as  the  great  party. 

Wednesday  came.  Such  doings  had  never 
been  heard  of  in  Rockland  as  went  on  that  day 
at  the  11  villa.”  The  carpet  had  been  taken  up  in 
the  long  room,  so  that  the  young  folks  might  have 
a  dance.  Miss  Matilda’s  piano  had  been  moved 
in,  and  two  fiddlers  and  a  clarionet-player  en¬ 
gaged  to  make  music.  All  kinds  of  lamps  had 
been  put  in  requisition,  and  even  colored  wax- 
candles  figured  on  the  mantel-pieces.  The  cos¬ 
tumes  of  the  family  had  been  tried  on  the  day 
before :  the  Colonel’s  black  suit  fitted  exceedingly 
well ;  his  lady’s  velvet  dress  displayed  her  con¬ 
tours  to  advantage ;  Miss  Matilda’s  flowered  silk 
was  considered  superb ;  the  eldest  son  of  the  fam¬ 
ily,  Mr.  T.  Jordan  Sprowle,  called  affectionately 
and  elegantly  “  Geordie,”  voted  himself  “  stun- 
nin’  ”  ;  and  even  the  small  youth  who  had  borne 
Mr.  Bernard’s  invitation  was  effective  in  a  new 
jacket  and  trousers,  buttony  in  front,  and  baggy 
in  the  reverse  aspect,  as  is  wont  to  be  the  case 
with  the  home-made  garments  of  inland  vtung 
jters. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


113 


Great  preparations  had  been  made  for  the  re¬ 
fection  which  was  to  be  part  of  the  entertain¬ 
ment.  There  was  much  clinking  of  borrowed 
spoons,  which  were  to  be  carefully  counted,  and 
much  clicking  of  borrowed  china,  which  was  tv'' 
be  tenderly  handled,  —  for  nobody  in  the  country 
keeps  those  vast  closets  full  of  such  things  which 
one  may  see  in  rich  city-houses.  Not  a  great 
deal  could  be  done  in  the  way  of  flowers,  for 
there  were  no  green-houses,  and  few  plants  were 
out  as  yet ;  but  there  were  paper  ornaments 
for  the  candlesticks,  and  colored  mats  for  the 
lamps,  and  all  the  tassels  of  the  curtains  and  bells 
were  taken  out  of  those  brown  linen  bags,  in 
which,  for  reasons  hitherto  undiscovered,  they  are 
habitually  concealed  in  some  households.  In  the 
remoter  apartments  every  imaginable  operation 
was  going  on  at  once,  —  roasting,  boiling,  bak¬ 
ing,  beating,  rolling,  pounding  in  mortars,  frying, 
freezing ;  for  there  was  to  be  ice-cream  to-night 
of  domestic  manufacture  ;  —  and  in  the  midst  of 
all  these  labors,  Mrs.  Sprowle  and  Miss  Matilda 
were  moving  about,  directing  and  helping  as  they 
best  might,  all  day  long.  When  the  evening 
came,  it  might  be  feared  they  would  not  be  in 
just  the  state  of  mind  and  body  to  entertain 
company. 

- One  would  like  to  give  a  party  now  and 

then,  if  one  could  be  a  billionnaire.  —  “  Antoine, 
[  am  going  to  have  twenty  people  to  dine  to- 
u  Bien ,  Madame .”  Not  a  word  or  thought 


VOL.  I. 


a 


114 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


more  about  it,  but  get  home  in  season  to  dress, 
and  come  down  to  your  own  table,  one  of  youi 
own  guests. —  “  Giuseppe,  we  are  to  have  a  party 
a  week  from  to-night,  —  five  hundred  invitations, 

—  there  is  the  list.”  The  day  comes.  “  Madamj 
do  you  remember  you  have  your  party  to-night  ?  ” 
a  Why,  so  I  have !  Everything  right  ?  supper  and 
all  ?  ”  “  All  as  it  should  be,  Madam.”  <£  Send  up 
Victorine.”  “  Victorine,  full  toilet  for  this  even¬ 
ing,  —  pink,  diamonds,  and  emeralds.  Coiffeur 
at  seven.  AllezP  —  Billionism,  or  even  million- 
ism,  must  be  a  blessed  kind  of  state,  with  health 
and  clear  conscience  and  youth  and  good  looks, 

—  but  most  blessed  in  this,  that  it  takes  off  all 
the  mean  cares  which  give  people  the  three  wrin¬ 
kles  between  the  eyebrows,  and  leaves  them  free 
to  have  a  good  time  and  make  others  have  a 
good  time,  all  the  way  along  from  the  charity 
that  tips  up  unexpected  loads  of  wood  before 
widows’  houses,  and  leaves  foundling  turkeys 
upon  poor  men’s  door-steps,  and  sets  lean  clergy¬ 
men  crying  at  the  sight  of  anonymous  fifty-dollar 
bills,  to  the  taste  which  orders  a  perfect  banquet 
in  such  sweet  accord  with  every  sense  that  every¬ 
body’s  nature  flowers  out  full-blown  in  its  golden- 
glowing,  fragrant  atmosphere. 

— —  A  great  party  given  by  the  smaller  gentry 
of  the  interior  is  a  kind  of  solemnity,  so  to  speak. 
It  involves  so  much  labor  and  anxiety,  —  its  spas¬ 
modic  splendors  are  so  violently  contrasted  with 
the  homeliness  of  every-day  family-life,  —  it  it 


ELSIE  VEaSTNER. 


in 


such  a  formidable  matter  to  break  in  the  raw 
subordinates  to  the  manege  of  the  cloak-room  and 
the  table,  —  there  is  such  a  terrible  uncertainty  in 
the  results  of  unfamiliar  culinary  operations,  —  so 
many  feuds  are  involved  in  drawing  that  fatal 
line  which  divides  the  invited  from  the  uninvited 
fraction  of  the  local  universe,  —  that,  if  the  notes 
requested  the  pleasure  of  the  guests’  company  on 
“  this  solemn  occasion,”  they  would  pretty  nearly 
express  the  true  state  of  things. 

The  Colonel  himself  had  been  pressed  into  the 
service.  He  had  pounded  something  in  the  great 
mortar.  He  had  agitated  a  quantity  of  sweet¬ 
ened  and  thickened  milk  in  what  was  called  a 
cream-freezer.  At  eleven  o’clock,  a.  m.,  he  retired 
for  a  space.  On  returning,  his  color  was  noted 
to  be  somewhat  heightened,  and  he  showed  a  dis¬ 
position  to  be  jocular  with  the  female  help, — 
which  tendency,  displaying  itself  in  livelier  dem¬ 
onstrations  than  were  approved  at  head-quarters, 
led  to  his  being  detailed  to  out-of-door  duties, 
such  as  raking  gravel,  arranging  places  for  horses 
to  be  hitched  to,  and  assisting  in  the  construction 
of  an  arch  of  winter-green  at  the  porch  of  the 
mansion. 

A  whiff  from  Mr.  Geordie’s  cigar  refreshed  the 
uiling  females  from  time  to  time:  for  the  win¬ 
dows  had  to  be  opened  occasionally,  while  all  these 
operations  were  going  on,  and  the  youth  amused 
himself  with  inspecting  the  interior,  encouraging 
the  operatives  now  and  then  in  the  phrases  com- 


116 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


monly  employed  by  genteel  young  men,  —  for  he 
had  perused  an  odd  volume  of  u  Verdant  Green,” 
and  was  acquainted  with  a  Sophomore  from  one 
of  the  fresh-water  colleges.  —  u  Go  it  on  the  feed  !  ” 
exclaimed  this  spirited  young  man.  61  Nothin’  lik 
a  good  spread.  Grub  enough  and  good  liquor 
that’s  the  ticket.  Guv’nor’ll  do  the  heavy  po« 
Lite,  and  let  me  alone  for  polishin’  off  the  young 
charmers.”  And  Mr.  Geordie  looked  expressively 
at  a  handmaid  who  was  rolling  gingerbread,  as  if 
he  were  rehearsing  for  “  Don  Giovanni.” 

Evening  came  at  last,  and  the  ladies  were 
forced  to  leave  the  scene  of  their  labors  to  array 
themselves  for  the  coming  festivities.  The  tables 
had  been  set  in  a  back  room,  the  meats  were 
ready,  the  pickles  were  displayed,  the  cake  was 
baked,  the  blanc-mange  had  stiffened,  and  the 
ice-cream  had  frozen. 

At  half  past  seven  o’clock,  the  Colonel,  in  cos¬ 
tume,  came  into  the  front  parlor,  and  proceeded 
to  light  the  lamps.  Some  were  good-humored 
enough  and  took  the  hint  of  a  lighted  match  at 
once.  Others  were  as  vicious  as  they  could  be, — 
would  not  light  on  any  terms,  any  more  than  if 
they  were  filled  with  water,  or  lighted  and  smoke 
one  side  of  the  chimney,  or  sputtered  a  few  sparks 
and  sulked  themselves  out,  or  kept  up  a  faint 
show  of  burning,  so  that  their  ground  glasses 
.ooked  as  feebly  phosphorescent  as  so  many  inva¬ 
lid  fireflies.  With  much  coaxing  and  screwing 
and  pricking,  a  tolerable  illumination  was  at  Iasi' 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


117 


achieved  At  eight  there  was  a  grand  rustling  of 
silks,  and  Mrs.  and  Miss  Sprowle  descended  from 
their  respective  bowers  or  boudoirs.  Of  course 
they  were  pretty  well  tired  by  this  time,  and  very 
glad  to  sit  down,  —  having  the  prospect  before 
them  of  being  obliged  to  stand  for  hours.  The 
Colonel  walked  about  the  parlor,  inspecting  his 
regiment  of  lamps.  By-and-by  Mr.  Geordie  en¬ 
tered. 

u  Mph !  mph !  ”  he  sniffed,  as  he  came  in. 
u  You  smell  of  lamp-smoke  here.” 

That  always  galls  people,  —  to  have  a  new¬ 
comer  accuse  them  of  smoke  or  close  air,  which 
they  have  got  used  to  and  do  not  perceive.  The 
Colonel  raged  at  the  thought  of  his  lamps’  smok¬ 
ing,  and  tongued  a  few  anathemas  inside  of  hia 
shut  teeth,  but  turned  down  two  or  three  wicks 
that  burned  higher  than  the  rest. 

Master  H.  Frederic  next  made  his  appearance, 
with  questionable  marks  upon  his  fingers  and 
countenance.  Had  been  tampering  with  some¬ 
thing  brown  and  sticky.  His  elder  brother  grew 
playful,  and  caught  him  by  the  baggy  reverse  of 
his  more  essential  garment. 

“  Hush  !  ”  said  Mrs.  Sprowle,  —  “  there’s  the 
bell !  ” 

Everybody  took  position  at  once,  and  began  to 
ook  very  smiling  and  altogether  at  ease. —  False 
alarm.  Only  a  parcel  of  spoons, — “loaned,”  as 
the  inland  folks  say  when  they  mean  lent,  by  a 

neighbor. 


118 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


“  Better  late  than  never ! ”  said  the  Colone. 
y  let  me  heft  them  spoons.” 

Mrs.  Sprowle  came  down  into  her  chair  again 
as  if  all  her  bones  had  been  bewitched  out  of  her. 

“  I’m  pretty  nigh  beat  out  a’ready,”  said  shej 
“  before  any  of  the  folks  has  come.” 

They  sat  silent  awhile,  waiting  for  the  first 
arrival.  How  nervous  they  got !  and  how  their 
senses  were  sharpened ! 

“Hark!”  said  Miss  Matilda,  —  “what’s  that 
rumblin’  ?  ” 

It  was  a  cart  going  over  a  bridge  more  than  a 
mile  off,  which  at  any  other  time  they  would  not 
have  heard.  After  this  there  was  a  lull,  and  poor 
Mrs.  Sprowle’s  head  nodded  once  or  twice.  Pres¬ 
ently  a  crackling  and  grinding  of  gravel ;  —  how 
much  that  means,  when  we  are  waiting  for  those 
whom  we  long  or  dread  to  see  !  Then  a  change 
in  the  tone  of  the  gravel-crackling. 

“  Yes,  they  have  turned  in  at  our  gate.  They’re 
tomin’ !  Mother !  mother !  ” 

Everybody  in  position,  smiling  and  at  ease. 
Bell  rings.  Enter  the  first  set  of  visitors.  The 
Event  of  the  Season  has  begun. 

“  Law !  it’s  nothin’  but  the  Cranes’  folks  !  I 
do  believe  Mahala’s  come  in  that  old  green  de- 
laine  she  wore  at  the  Surprise  Party !  ” 

Miss  Matilda  had  peeped  through  a  crack  of 
the  door  and  made  this  observation  and  the  re¬ 
mark  founded  thereon.  Continuing  her  attitude 
of  attention,  she  overheard  Mrs.  Crane  and  he* 


ELSIE  VENNEE.  119 

two  daughters  conversing  in  the  attiring- room,  up 
one  flight. 

“  How  fine  everything  is  in  the  great  house !  n 
said  Mrs.  Crane,  —  “jest  look  at  the  picters  !  ” 

“  Matildy  Sprowle’s  drawins,”  said  Ada  Azuba* 
the  eldest  daughter. 

u  I  should  think  so,”  said  Mahala  Crane,  her 
younger  sister,  —  a  wide-awake  girl,  who  hadn’t 
been  to  school  for  nothing,  and  performed  a  little 
on  the  lead  pencil  herself.  “  I  should  like  to  know 
whether  that’s  a  hay-cock  or  a  mountain  !  ” 

Miss  Matilda  winced ;  for  this  must  refer  to 
her  favorite  monochrome,  executed  by  laying  on 
heavy  shadows  and  stumping  them  down  into 
mellow  harmony,  —  the  style  of  drawing  which 
is  taught  in  six  lessons,  and  the  kind  of  specimen 
which  is  executed  in  something  less  than  one 
hour.  Parents  and  other  very  near  relatives  are 
sometimes  gratified  with  these  productions,  and 
cause  them  to  be  framed  and  hung  up,  as  in  the 
present  instance. 

u  I  guess  we  won’t  go  down  jest  yet,”  said  Mrs. 
Crane,  “  as  folks  don’t  seem  to  have  come.” 

So  she  began  a  systematic  inspection  of  the 
dressing-room  and  its  conveniences. 

u  Mahogany  four-poster,  —  come  from  the  Jor¬ 
dans’,  I  cal’late.  Marseilles  quilt.  Ruffles  all 
round  the  piller.  Chintz  curtings,  — jest  put  up, 
—  o’  purpose  for  the  party  I’ll  lay  ye  a  do  Jar.  — • 
What  a  nice  washbowl !  ”  (Taps  it  with  a  white 
knuckle  belonging  to  a  red  finger.)  “  Stone  cha* 


120 


ELSIE  VENXER. 


ney,  —  Here’s  a  bran’-new  brush  and  comb, —  and 
here’s  a  scent-bottle.  Come  here,  girls,  and  fix 
yourselves  in  the  glass,  and  scent  your  pocket- 
handkerchers 

And  Mrs.  Crane  bedewed  her  own  kerchief 
with  some  of  the  eau  de  Cologne  of  native  man¬ 
ufacture, —  said  on  its  label  to  be  much  superior 
to  the  German  article. 

It  was  a  relief  to  Mrs.  and  the  Miss  Cranes 
when  the  bell  rang  and  the  next  guests  were 
admitted.  Deacon  and  Mrs.  Soper,  —  Deacon 
Soper  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Fair  weather’s  church,  and 
his  lady.  Mrs.  Deacon  Soper  was  directed,  of 
course,  to  the  ladies’  dressing-room,  and  her  hus¬ 
band  to  the  other  apartment,  where  gentlemen 
were  to  leave  their  outside  coats  and  hats.  Then 
came  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Briggs,  and  then  the  three 
Miss  Spinneys,  then  Silas  Peckham,  Head  of 
the  Apollinean  Institute,  and  Mrs.  Peckham,  and 
more  after  them,  until  at  last  the  ladies’  dressing- 
room  got  so  full  that  one  might  have  thought  it 
was  a  trap  none  of  them  could  get  out  of.  In 
truth,  they  all  felt  a  little  awkwardly.  Nobody 
wanted  to  be  first  to  venture  down-stairs.  At  last 
Mr.  Silas  Peckham  thought  it  was  time  to  make 
a  move  for  the  parlor,  and  for  this  purpose  pre¬ 
sented  himself  at  the  door  )f  the  ladies’  dressing 
room. 

“  Lorindy,  my  dear!”  he  exclaimed  to  Mrs 
Peckham, — u  I  think  there  can  be  no  impropriety 
di  our  joining  the  family  down-stairs.” 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


121 


Mrs.  Peckham  laid  her  large,  flaccid  arm  in  the 
iliarp  angle  made  by  the  black  sleeve  which  held 
the  bony  limb  her  husband  offered,  and  the  two 
took  the  stair  and  struck  out  for  the  parlor.  The 
ice  was  broken,  and  the  dressing-room  began  to 
empty  itself  into  the  spacious,  lighted  apartments 
below. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  slid  into  the  room  with 
Mrs.  Peckham  alongside,  like  a  shad  convoying 
a  jelly-fish. 

u  Good  evenin’,  Mrs.  Sprowle !  I  hope  I  see 
you  well  this  evenin’.  How’s  your  haalth,  Col¬ 
onel  Sprowle  ?  ” 

u  Very  well,  much  obleeged  to  you.  Hope  you 
and  your  good  lady  are  well.  Much  pleased  to 
see  you.  Hope  you’ll  enjoy  yourselves.  We’ve 
laid  out  to  have  everything  in  good  shape,  — 
spared  no  trouble  nor  ex  ” - 

- “  pense,”  —  said  Silas  Peckham. 

Mrs.  Colonel  Sprowle,  who,  you  remember, 
was  a  Jordan,  had  nipped  the  Colonel’s  state¬ 
ment  in  the  middle  of  the  word  Mr.  Peckham 
finished,  with  a  look  that  jerked  him  like  one 
of  those  sharp  twitches  women  keep  giving  a 
horse  when  they  get  a  chance  to  drive  one. 

Mr.  and  Mrs.  Crane,  Miss  Ada  Azuba,  and 
bliss  Mahala  Crane  made  their  entrance.  There 
had  been  a  discussion  about  the  necessity  and 
propriety  of  inviting  this  family,  the  head  of 
Which  kept  a  small  shop  for  hats  and  boots  and 
shoes.  The  Colonel’s  casting  vote  had  carried 


122 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


it  in  the  affirmative.  —  How  terribly  the  poor  old 
green  de-laine  did  cut  up  in  the  blaze  of  so  many 
lamps  and  candies. 

- Deluded  little  wretch,  male  or  female,  in 

town  or  country,  going  to  your  first  great  party, 
how  little  you  know  the  nature  of  the  ceremony 
in  which  you  are  to  bear  the  part  of  victim 5 
What!  are  not  these  garlands  and  gauzy  mists 
and  many-colored  streamers  which  adorn  you,  is 
not  this  music  which  welcomes  ymu,  this  radi¬ 
ance  that  glows  about  you,  meant  solely  for  your 
enjoyment,  young  miss  of  seventeen  or  eighteen 
summers,  now  for  the  first  time  swimming  into 
the  frothy,  chatoyant,  sparkling,  undulating  sea 
of  laces  and  silks  and  satins,  and  white-armed 
flower-crowned  maidens  struggling  in  their  waves 
beneath  the  lustres  that  make  the  false  summer 
of  the  drawing-room? 

Stop  at  the  threshold!  This  is  a  hall  of  judg¬ 
ment  you  are  entering ;  the  court  is  in  session ; 
and  if  you  move  five  steps  forward,  you  will  be 
at  its  bar. 

There  was  a  tribunal  once  in  France,  as  you 
may  remember,  called  the  Chcimbre  Ardente ,  the 
Burning  Chamber.  It  was  hung  all  round  with 
lamps,  and  hence  its  name.  The  burning  cham* 
ber  for  the  trial  of  young  maidens  is  the  blazing 
ball  room.  What  have  they  full-dressed  you,  or 
rather  half-dressed  you  for,  do  you  think?  To 
make  you  look  pretty,  of  course !  —  Why  have 
they  hung  a  chandelier  above  you,  flickering  al 


ELSIE  VENEER. 


123 


over  with  flames,  so  that  it  searches  you  like  the 
noonday  sun,  and  your  deepest  dimple  cannot 
hold  a  shadow  ?  To  give  brilliancy  to  the  gay 
scene,  no  doubt!  —  No,  my  dear!  Society  is  in • 
tpecting1  you,  and  it  finds  undisguised  surfaces 
and  strong  lights  a  convenience  in  the  process. 
The  dance  answers  the  purpose  of  the  revolving 
pedestal  upon  which  the  “  White  Captive  ”  turns, 
to  show  us  the  soft,  kneaded  marble,  which  looks 
as  if  it  had  never  been  hard,  in  all  its  manifold 
aspects  of  living  loveliness.  No  mercy  for  you, 
my  love !  Justice,  strict  justice,  you  shall  cer¬ 
tainly  have,  —  neither  more  nor  less.  For,  look 
you,  there  are  dozens,  scores,  hundreds,  with 
whom  you  must  be  weighed  in  the  balance ; 
and  you  have  got  to  learn  that  the  “  struggle 
for  life  ”  Mr.  Charles  Darwin  talks  about  reaches 
to  vertebrates  clad  in  crinoline,  as  well  as  to  mol- 
lusks  in  shells,  or  articulates  in  jointed  scales,  or 
anything  that  fights  for  breathing-room  and  food 
and  love  in  any  coat  of  fur  or  feather!  Happy 
they  who  can  flash  defiance  from  bright  eyes  and 
snowy  shoulders  back  into  the  pendants  of  tho 
insolent  lustres! 

- Miss  Mahala  Crane  did  not  have  these  re¬ 
flections  ;  and  no  young  girl  ever  did,  or  ever  will, 
thank  Heaven !  Her  keen  eyes  sparkled  under 
her  plainly  parted  hair  and  the  green  de-laine 
moulded  itself  in  those  unmistakable  lines  of 
natural  symmetry  in  which  Nature  indulges  a 
small  shopkeeper’s  daughter  occasionally  as  well 


124 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


as  a  wholesale  dealer’s  young  ladies.  She  would 
have  liked  a  new  dress  as  much  as  an}r  other  girl 
but  she  meant  to  go  and  have  a  good  time  at 
any  rate. 

The  guests  were  now  arriving  in  the  drawing¬ 
room  pretty  fast,  and  the  Colonel’s  hand  began  to 
burn  a  good  deal  with  the  sharp  squeezes  which 
many  of  the  visitors  gave  it.  Conversation,  which 
had  begun  like  a  summer-shower,  in  scattering 
drops,  was  fast  becoming  continuous,  and  occa¬ 
sionally  rising  into  gusty  swells,  with  now  and 
then  a  broad-chested  laugh  from  some  Captain 
or  Major  or  other  military  personage,  —  for  it  may 
be  noted  that  all  large  and  loud  men  in  the  un¬ 
paved  districts  bear  military  titles. 

Deacon  Soper  came  up  presently,  and  entered 
into  conversation  with  Colonel  Sprowle. 

u  I  hope  to  see  our  pastor  present  this  evenin’,” 
said  the  Deacon. 

“  I  don’t  feel  quite  sure,”  the  Colonel  an¬ 
swered.  “  His  dyspepsy  has  been  bad  on  him 
lately.  He  wrote  to  say,  that,  Providence  per- 
mittin’,  it  would  be  agreeable  to  him  to  take  a 
part  in  the  exercises  of  the  evenin’ ;  but  I  mis¬ 
trusted  he  didn’t  mean  to  come.  To  tell  the 
truth,  Deacon  Soper,  I  rather  guess  he  don’t  like 
the  idee  of  dancin’,  and  some  of  the  other  little 
turangements.” 

“  Weil,”  said  the  Deacon,  “  I  know  there’s 
some  condemns  dancin’.  I’ve  heerd  a  good  deal 
of  talk  about  it  among  the  folks  round.  Soms 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


125 


nave  it  that  it  never  brings  a  blessin’  on  a  house 
to  have  dancin’  in  it.  Judge  Tileston  died,  you 
remember,  within  a  month  after  he  had  his  great 
ball*  twelve  year  ago,  and  some  thought  it  was  in 
the  natur’  of  a  judgment.  I  don’t  believe  in  any 
of  them  notions.  If  a  man  happened  to  be  struck 
dead  the  night  after  he’d  been  givin’  a  ball,”  (the 
Colonel  loosened  his  black  stock  a  little,  and 
winked  and  swallowed  two  or  three  times,)  44  3 
shouldn’t  call  it  a  judgment, —  I  should  call  it  a 
coincidence.  But  I’m  a  little  afraid  our  pastoi 
won’t  come.  Somethin’  or  other’s  the  mattei 
with  Mr.  Fairweather.  I  should  sooner  expect 
to  see  the  old  Doctor  come  over  out  of  the  Ortho¬ 
dox  parsonage-house.^. 

44  I’ve  asked  him,”  said  the  Colonel. 

u  Well  ?  ”  said  Deacon  Soper. 

44  He  said  he  should  like  to  come,  but  he  didn’t 
know  what  his  people  would  say.  For  his  part, 
he  loved  to  see  young  folks  havin’  their  sports 
together,  and  very  often  felt  as  if  he  should  like 
to  be  one  of  ’em  himself.  ‘But,’  says  I,  4  Doc¬ 
tor,  I  don’t  say  there  won’t  be  a  little  dancin’. 

Don’t!’  says  he,  4  for  I  want  Letty  to  go,’  (she’s 
his  granddaughter  that’s  been  stayin’  with  him,) 
‘and  Letty’s  mighty  fond  of  dancin’.  You  know,’ 
says  the  Doctor,  4  it  isn’t  my  business  to  settle 
whether  other  people’s  children  should  dance  or 
not.’  And  the  Doctor  looked  as  if  he  should  like 
to  rigadoon  and  sashy  across  as  well  as  the  young 
one  he  was  talkin’  about.  He ’s  got  blood  in  him 


cm 


126 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


S 

/ 


the  old  Doctor  has.  I  wish  our  little  man  and 
him  would  swop  pulpits.” 

Deacon  Soper  started  and  looked  up  into  the 
Colonel’s  face,  as  if  to  see  whether  he  was  in 
earnest. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  and  his  lady  joined  the 

group. 

“  Is  this  to  be  a  Temperance  Celebration,  Mrs. 
Sprowle  ?  ”  asked  Mr.  Silas  Peckham. 

Mrs.  Sprowle  replied,  “  that  there  would  be 
lemonade  and  srub  for  those  that  preferred  such 
drinks,  but  that  the  Colonel  had  given  folks  to 
understand  that  he  didn’t  mean  to  set  in  judg¬ 
ment  on  the  marriage  in  Canaan,  and  that  those 
that  didn’t  like  srub  and  such  things  would  find 
somethin’  that  would  suit  them  better.” 

Deacon  Soper’s  countenance  assumed  a  certain 
air  of  restrained  cheerfulness.  The  conversation 
rose  into  one  of  its  gusty  paroxysms  just  then. 
Master  H.  Frederic  got  behind  a  door  and  began 
performing  the  experiment  of  stopping  and  un¬ 
stopping  his  ears  in  rapid  alternation,  greatly 
rej  oicing  in  the  singular  effect  of  mixed  conver¬ 
sation  chopped  very  small,  like  the  contents  of  q 
mince-pie,  —  or  meat  pie,  as  it  is  more  forcibly 
called  in  the  deep-rutted  villages  lying  along  the 
unsalted  streams.  All  at  once  it  grew  silent  just 
»ound  the  door,  where  it  had  been  loudest,  —  and 
the  silence  spread  itself  like  a  stain,  till  it  hushed 
everything  but  a  few  corner-duets.  A  dark, 
'J  saddooking,  middle-aged  gentleman  entered  the 


A 

/ 


ELSIE  VENNEIt. 


127 

parlor,  with  a  young  lady  on  his  arm, --his 
daughter,  as  it  seemed,  for  she  was  not  wholly 
unlike  him  in  feature,  and  of  the  same  dark  com* 
plexion. 

“Dudley  Venner!”  exclaimed  a  dozen  people, 
in  startled,  but  half-suppressed  tones. 

“  What  can  have  brought  Dudley  out  to-night?” 
said  Jefferson  Buck,  a  young  fellow,  who  had 
been  interrupted  in  one  of  the  corner-duets  which 
he  was  executing  in  concert  with  Miss  Susy  Pet- 
tingill. 

“How  do  I  know,  Jeff?”  was  Miss  Susy’s 
answer.  Then,  after  a  pause,  —  “  Elsie  made 
him  come,  I  guess.  Go  ask  Dr.  Kittredge  ;  he 
knows  all  about  ’em  both,  they  say.” 

Dr.  Kittredge,  the  leading  physician  of  Bock-  ** 

*and,  was  a  shrewd  old  man,  who  looked  pretty 
keenly  into  his  patients  through  his  spectacles, 
and  pretty widely  at  men,  women,  and  things  in 
general  ctver  themT” “Sixty-three^ years  old,  —  just 
the  yeaf’of  the  grand  climacteric.  A  bald  crown,  ^  1 

as  every  doctor  should  have.  A  consulting  prac¬ 
titioner’s  mouth ;  that  is,  movable  round  the  cor¬ 
ners  while  the  case  is  under  examination,  but 
both  corners  well  drawn  down  and  kept  so  when 
the  final  opinion  is  made  up.  In  fact,  the  Doc¬ 
tor  was  often  sent  for  to  act  as  “  caounsel,”  ail 
oiet  the  county,  and  beyond  it.  He  kept  three 
9r  four  horsss,  sometimes  riding  in  the  saddle, 
commonly  driving  in  a  sulky,  pretty  fast,  and 
poking  straight  before  him,  so  that  people  got 


228 


ELSIE  YEN-NEE. 

out  of  the  way  of  bowing  to  him  as  he  passed 
on  the  road.  There  was  some  talk  about  his  not 
being  so  long-sighted  as  other  folks,  but  his  old 
patients  laughed  and  looked  knowing  when  this 
was  spoken  of. 

The  Doctor  knew  a  good  many  things  besides 
how  to  drop  tinctures  and  shake  out  powders. 
Thus,  he  knew  a  horse,  and,  what  is  harder  to 
understand,  a  horse-dealer,  and  was  a  match  for 
him.  He  knew  what  a  nervous  woman  is,  and 
how  to  manage  her.  He  could  tell  at  a  glance 
when  she  is  in  that  condition  of  unstable  equi¬ 
librium  in  which  a  rough  word  is  like  a  blow  to 
her,  and  the  touch  of  unmagnetized  fingers  re¬ 
verses  all  her  nervous  currents.  It  is  not  every¬ 
body  that  enters  into  the  soul  of  Mozart’s  or 
Beethoven’s  harmonies ;  and  there  are  vital  sym¬ 
phonies  in  B  flat,  and  other  low,  sad  keys,  which 
a  doctor  may  know  as  little  of  as  a  hurdy-gurdy 
player  of  the  essence  of  those  divine  musical  mys¬ 
teries.  The  Doctor  knew  the  difference  between 
what  men  say  and  what  they  mean  as  well  as 
most  people.  When  he  was  listening  to  common 
talk,  he  was  in  the  habit  of  looking  over  his  spec¬ 
tacles;  if  he  lifted  his  head  so  as  to  look  through 
them  at  the  person  talking,  he  was  busier  with 
that  person’s  thoughts  than  with  his  words. 

Jefferson  Buck  was  not  bold  enough  to  confront 
the  Doctor  with  Miss  Susy’s  question,  for  he  did 
not  look  as  if  he  were  in  the  mood  to  answer 
queries  put  by  curious  young  people  His  eyes 


rT  5  IE  VENNER 


129 


were  fixed  steadily  on  the  dark  girl,  every  move-  y ^ 

ment  of  whom  he  seemed  to  follow.  A> 

She  was,  indeed,  an  apparition  of  wild  beauty,  ^>'c' 
bo  unlike  the  girls  about  her  that  it  seemed  noth¬ 
ing  more  than  natural,  that,  when  she  moved,  the 
groups  should  part  to  let  her  pass  through  them, 
and  that  she  should  carry  the  centre  of  all  looks 
and  thoughts  with  her.  She  was  dressed  to  please 
her  own  fancy,  evidently,  with  small  regard  to  the 
modes  declared  correct  by  the  Rockland  milliners 
and  mantua-makers.  Her  heavy  black  hair  lay 
in  a  braided  coil,  with  a  long  gold  pin  shot  ^ 
through  it  like  a  javelin.  Round  her  neck  was 
a  golden  torque ,  a  round,  cord-like  chain,  such  as  ^ 
the  Gauls  used  to  wear:  the  “Dying  Gladiator” 
has  it.  Her  dress  was  a  grayish  watered  silk ;  hei 
collar  was  pinned  with  a  flashing  diamond  brooch,  ^ 
the  stones  looking  as  fresh  as  morning  dew-drops, 
but  the  silver  setting  of  the  past  generation  ;  her 
arms  were  bare,  round,  but  slender  rather  than  ^ 
large,  in  keeping  with  her  lithe  rojund  figure.  On 
her  wrists  she  wore  bracelets  :  one  was  a  cir- 
clet  of  enamelled  scales ;  the  other  looked  as  if  it  ^ 
might  have  been  Cleopatra’s  ^sp,  with  its  body  a 
turned  to  gold  and  its  eyes  to  emeralds. 

Her  father  —  for  Dudley  Venner  was  her  father 
—  looked  like  a  man  of  culture  and  breeding,  but 
melancholy  and  with  a  distracted  air,  as  one  ^ 
whose  life  had  met  some  fatal  cross  or  blight. 

He  saluted  hardly  anybody  except  his  entertain* 
ers  and  the  Doctor.  One  would  have  said,  t<r 


VOL.  I. 


9 


130 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


Look  at  him,  that  he  was  not  at  the  party  b5 
choice ;  and  it  was  natural  enough  to  think,  with 
Susy  Petti n gill,  that  it  must  have  been  a  freal 
of  the  dark  girl’s  which  brought  him  there,  for  he 
had  the  air  of  a  shy  and  sad-hearted  recluse. 

It  was  hard  to  say  what  could  have  brought 
Elsie  Venner  to  the  party.  Hardly  anybody 
seemed  to  know  her,  and  she  seemed  not  at  all 
disposed  to  make  acquaintances.  Here  and  there 
was  one  of  the  older  girls  from  the  Institute, 
but  she  appeared  to  have  nothing  in  common 
with  them.  Even  in  the  school-room,  it  may  be 
remembered,  she  sat  apart  by  her  own  choice, 
and  now  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  she  made  a 
j  circle  of  isolation  round  herself.  Drawing  hex 
arm  out  of  her  father’s,  she  stood  against  the 
v  wall,  and  looked,  with  a  strange,  cold  glitter  in 
her  eyes,  at  the  crowd  which  moved  and  babbled 
before  her. 

The  old  Doctor  came  up  to  her  by-and-by. 

“  Well,  Elsie,  I  am  quite  surprised  to  find  you 
here.  Do  tell  me  how  you  happened  to  do  such 
a  good-natured  thing  as  to  let  us  see  you  at 
Euch  a  great  party.” 

“  It’s  been  dull  at  the  mansion-house,”  she  said, 
*  and  I  wanted  to  get  out  of  it.  It’s  too  lonely 
there,  —  there’s  nobody  to  hate  since  Dick’s  gone.” 

The  Doctor  laughed  good-naturedly,  as  if  this 
were  an  amusing  bit  of  pleasantry, -  —  but  he  lifted 
his  head  arjtl.  dropped^  his  eyes  a  little,  so  as  to 
gee  Her  through  his  spectacles.  She  narrowed 


1 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


131 

her  lids  slightly,  as  one  often  sees  a  sleepy  cat 
narrow  hers,  —  somewhat  as  yon  may  remembej 
our  famous  Margaret  used  to,  if  you  remember 
her  at  afl,  so  thak  her  eyes  looked  very  small, 
but  bright  as  the  diamonds  on  her  breast.  The 
old  Doctor  felt  very  oddly  as  she  looked  at  him; 
he  did  not  like  the  feeling,  so  he  dropped  his  head 
and  lifted  his  eyes  and  looked  at  herjwer  his 
spectacles  again. 

“^TShd  how  have  you  all  been  at  the  mansion- 
house?5’  said  the  Doctor. 

“  Oh,  well  enough.  But  Dick’s  gone,  and 
there’s  nobody  left  but  Dudley  and  I  and  the 
people.  I’m  tired  of  it.  What  kills  .anybody 
quickest,  Doctor?”  Then,  in  a  whisper,  “  I  ran1 
away  again  the  other  day,  you  know.” 

“  Where  did  you  go  ?  ”  The  Doctor  spoke  in 
a  low,  serious  tone. 

“  Oh,  to  the  old  place.  Here,  I  brought  this 
for  you.” 

The  Doctor  started  as  she  handed  him  a  flower  ; 
of  the  Atragene  Americana ,  for  he  knew  that 
there  was  only  one  spot  where  it  grew,  and  that 
not  one  where  any  rash  foot,  least  of  all  a  thin- 
shod  woman’s  foot,  should  venture, 

“  How  long  were  you  gone  ?  ”  said  the  Doctor. 

“  Only  one  night.  You  should  have  heard  the 
horns  blowing  and  the  guns  firing.  Dudley  was 
frightened  out  of  his  wits.  Old  Sophy  told  him 
she ’d  had  a  dream,  and  that  I  should  be  found 
in  Dead-Man’s  Hollow,  with  a  great  rock  lying 


132 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


on  me.  They  hunted  all  over  it,  but  they  didn’t 
find  me,  —  I  was  farther  up.” 

Doctor  Kittredge  looked  cloudy  and  worried 
while  she  was  speaking,  but  forced  a  pleasant 
professional  smile,  as  he  said  cheerily,  and  as  if 
wishing  to  change  the  subject,  — 

“  Have  a  good  dance  this  evening,  Elsie.  The 
fiddlers  are  tuning  up.  Where ’s  the  young  mas¬ 
ter  ?  Has  he  come  yet?  or  is  he  going  to  be  late, 
with  the  other  great  folks  ?  ” 

The  girl  turned  away  without  answering,  and 
looked  toward  the  door. 

The  u  great  folks,”  meaning  the  mansion-house 
gentry,  were  just  beginning  to  come;  Dudley 
Ycnner  and  his  daughter  had  been  the  first  of 
them.  Judge  Thornton,  white-headed,  fresh-faced, 
as  good  at  sixty  as  he  was  at  forty,  with  a  young¬ 
ish  second  wife,  and  one  noble  daughter,  Arabella, 
who,  they  said,  knew  as  much  law  as  her  father, 
a  stately,  Portia-like  girl,  fit  for  a  premier’s  wife, 
not  like  to  find  her  match  even  in  the  great  cities 
she  sometimes  visited;  the  Trenoilucks,  the  family 
of  a  merchant,  (in  the  larger  sense,)  who,  having 
made  himself  rich  enough  by  the  time  he  had 
reached  middle  life,  threw  down  his  ledger  as 
Sylla  did  his  dagger,  and  retired  to  make  a  little 
paradise  around  him  in  one  of  the  stateliest  res¬ 
idences  of  the  town,  a  family  inheritance  ;  the 
Vaughans,  an  old  Rockland  race,  descended  from 
its  first  settlers,  Toryish  in  tendency  in  Revolu 
ticnary  times,  and  barely  escaping  coufiscatioi 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Off 

or 


>r  worse;  the  Dunhams,  a  new  family,  dating 
its  gentility  only  as  far  back  as  the  Honorable 
Washington  Dunham,  M.  C.,  but  turning  out  a 
clever  boy  or  two  that  went  to  college,  and  some 
showy  girls  with  white  necks  and  fat  arms  who 
had  picked  up  professional  husbands :  these  were 
the  principal  mansion-house  people.  All  of  them 
had  made  it  a  point  to  come;  and  as  each  of  them 
entered,  it  seemed  to  Colonel  and  Mrs.  Sprowle 
that  the  lamps  burned  up  with  a  more  cheerfu. 
light,  and  that  the  fiddles  which  sounded  from 
the  un carpeted  room  were  all  half  a  tone  higher 
and  half  a  beat  quicker. 

Mr.  Bernard  came  in  later  than  any  of  them  ; 
he  had  been  busy  with  his  new  duties.  He 
looked  well ;  and  that  is  saying  a  good  deal ;  for 
nothing  but  a  gentleman  is  endurable  in  full 
dress.  Hair  that  masses  well,  a  head  set  on  with 
an  air,  a  neckerchief  tied  cleverly  by  an  easy,  prac¬ 
tised  hand,  close-fitting  gloves,  feet  well  shaped 
and  well  covered,  —  these  advantages  can  make 
us  forgive  the  odious  sable  broadcloth  suit,  which 
appears  to  have  been  adopted  by  society  on  the 
same  principle  that  condemned  all  the  Venetian 
gondolas  to  perpetual  and  uniform  blackness.  Mr. 
Bernard,  introduced  by  Mr.  Geordie,  made  his  bow 
to  the  Colonel  and  his  lady  and  to  Miss  Matilda, 
from  whom  he  got  a  particularly  gracious  curtsy, 
und  then  began  looking  about  him  for  acquaint¬ 
ances.  He  found  two  or  three  faces  he  knew,  — 
tnany  more  strangers.  There  was  Silas  Peckham, 


134 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


*—  there  was  no  mistaking  him ;  there  was  the 
inelastic  amplitude  of  Mrs.  Peckham ;  few  of  the 
Apollinean  girls,  of  course,  they  not  being  rec¬ 
ognized  members  of  society,  —  but  there  is  one 
with  the  flame  in  her  cheeks  and  the  fire  in  her 
eyes,  the  girl  of  vigorous  tints  and  emphatic  out¬ 
lines,  whom  we  saw  entering  the  school-room  the 
other  day.  Old  Judge  Thornton  has  his  eyes  on 
her,  and  the  Colonel  steals  a  look  every  now  and 
then  at  the  red  brooch  which  lifts  itself  so  superb¬ 
ly  into  the  light,  as  if  he  thought  it  a  wonder¬ 
fully  becoming  ornament.  Mr.  Bernard  himself 
was  not  displeased  with  the  general  effect  of  the 
rich-blooded  school-  girl)  as  she  stood  under  the 
bright  lamps,  fanning  herself  in  the  warm,  lan¬ 
guid  air,  fixed  in  a  kind  of  passionate  surprise  at 
the  new  life  which  seemed  to  be  flowering  out  in 
her  consciousness.  Perhaps  he  looked  at  her 
somewhat  steadily,  as  some  others  had  done ;  at 
any  rate,  she  seemed  to  feel  that  she  was  looked 
at,  as  people  often  do,  and,  turning  her  eyes  sud¬ 
denly  on  him,  caught  his  own  on  her  face,  gave 
him  a  half-bashful  smile,  and  threw  in  a  blush 
involuntarily  which  made  it  more  charming. 

u  What  can  I  do  better,”  he  said  to  himself, 
64  than  have  a  dance  with  Rosa  Milburn?”  So 
he  carried  his  handsome  pupil  into  the  next 
room  and  took  his  place  with  her  in  a  cotillon. 
Whether  the  breath  of  the  Goddess  of  Love 
could  intoxicate  like  the  cup  of  Circe,  —  whether 
a  woman  is  ever  phosphorescent  with  the  lurnl 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


135 


nous  vapor  of  life  that  she  exhales,  —  these  and 
other  questions  which  relate  to  occult  influences 
exercised  by  certain  women,  we  will  not  now 
discuss.  It  is  enough  that  Mr.  Bernard  was  sen* 
sible  ofLa  strange  fascination,  not  wholly  new  to 
Aim,  nor  unprecedented  in  the  history  of  human 
experience,  but  always  a  revelation  when  it  comeg 
over  us  for  the  first  or  the  hundredth  time,  sc? 
pale  is  the  most  recent  memory  by  the  side  of 
the  passing  moment  with  the  flush  of  any  new- 
born  passion  on  its  cheek.  Remember  that  Na¬ 
ture  makes  every  man  love  all  women,  and  trusts  ^ 
the  trivial  matter  of  special  choice  to  the  com¬ 
monest  accident. 

If  Mr.  Bernard  had  had  nothing  to  distract  his 
attention,  he  might  have  thought  too  much  about 
his  handsome  partner,  and  then  gone  home  and 
dreamed  about  her,  which  is  always  dangerous, 
and  waked  up  thinking  of  her  still,  and  then  be¬ 
gun  to  be  deeply  interested  in  her  studies,  and 
so  on,  through  the  whole  syllogism  which  ends 
in  Nature’s  supreme  quod  erat  demonstrandum . 
What  was  there  to  distract  him  or  disturb  him  ? 
He  did  not  know,  —  but  there  was  something. 
This  sumptuous  creature,  this  Eve  just  within 
the  gate  of  an  untried  Paradise,  untutored  in  the 
ways  of  the  world,  but  on  tiptoe  to  reach  the 
fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge,  —  alive  to  the 
moist  vitality  of  that  warm  atmosphere  palpitat 
ing  with  voices  and  music,  as  the  flower  of  some 
dic?e;ous  plant  which  has  grown  in  a  lone  comer 


136 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


and  suddenly  unfolding  its  corolla  on  some  hot 
breathing  June  evening,  feels  that  the  air  is  per* 
fumed  with  strange  odors  and  loaded  with  golden 
dust  wafted  from  those  other  blossoms  with  which 
its  double  life  is  shared,  —  this  almost  over-worn 
anized  woman  might  well  have  bewitched  him, 
but  that  he  had  a  vague  sense  of  a  counter-charm. 
It  was,  perhaps,  only  the  same  consciousness  that 
some  one  was  looking  at  him  which  he  himself 
had  just  given  occasion  to  in  his  partner.  Pres¬ 
ently,  in  one  of  the  turns  of  the  dance,  he  felt 
lns_eyes  drawn  to  a  figure  he  had  not  distin  etlj 
recognized,  though  he  had  dimly  felt  its  presence, 
and  saw  that  Elsie  Yenner  was  looking  at  him 
as  if  she  saw  nothing  else  but  him.  He  was 
not  a  nervous  person,  like  the  poor  lady  teacher, 
yet  the  glitter  of  the  diamond  eyes  affected  him 
strangely.  It  seemed  to  disenchant  the  air,  so 
full  a  moment  before  of  strange  attractions.  He 
became  silent,  and  dreamy,  as  it  were.  The 
round-limbed  beauty  at  his  side  crushed  her 
gauzy  draperies  against  him,  as  they  trod  the 
figure  of  the  dance  together,  but  it  was  no  more 
to  him  than  if  an  old  nurse  had  laid  her  hand 
on  his  sleeve.  The  young  girl  chafed  at  his 
seeming  neglect,  and  her  imperious  blood  mount¬ 
ed  into  her  cheeks ;  but  he  appeared  unconscious 
of  it. 

1  There  is  one  of  our  young  ladies  I  must 
speak  to,”  he  said,  —  and  was  just  leaving  hi? 
partner’s  side. 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


137 


“Four  hands  all  round!”  shouted  the  first  vi¬ 
olin, —  and  Mr.  Bernard  found  himself  seized  and 
whirled  in  a  circle  out  of  which  he  could  not  es¬ 
cape.  and  then  forced  to  “  cross  over,”  and  then 
to  “  dozy  do,”  as  the  maestro  had  it,  —  and  when, 
on  getting  back  to  his  place,  he  looked  for  Elsie 
Venner,  she  was  gone. 

The  dancing  went  on  briskly.  Some  of  the 
old  folks  looked  on,  others  conversed  in  groups 
and  pairs,  and  so  the  evening  wore  along,  until  a 
little  after  ten  o’clock.  About  this  time  there 
was  noticed  an  increased  bustle  in  the  passages, 
with  a  considerable  opening  and  shutting  of 
doors.  Presently  it  began  to  be  whispered  about 
that  they  were  going  to  have  supper.  Many, 
who  had  never  been  to  any  large  party  before, 
held  their  breath  for  a  moment  at  this  announce¬ 
ment.  It  was  rather  with  a  tremulous  interest 
than  with  open  hilarity  that  the  rumor  was  gen¬ 
erally  received. 

One  point  the  Colonel  had  entirely  forgotten 
to  settle.  It  was  a  point  involving  not  merely 
propriety,  but  perhaps  principle  also,  or  at  least 
the  good  report  of  the  house,  —  and  he  had  never 
thought  to  arrange  it.  He  took  Judge  Thornton 
aside  and  whispered  the  important  question  to 
him,  —  in  his  distress  of  mind,  mistaking  pockets 
and  taking  out  his  bandanna  instead  of  his  white 
handkerchief  to  wipe  his  forehead. 

“Judge,”  he  said,  “  do  you  think,  that,  before 
we  commence  refreshing  ourselves  at  the  tables, 


138 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


it  would  be  the  proper  thing  to  —  crave  a  —  to 
request  Deacon  Soper  or  some  other  elderly  per¬ 
son  —  to  ask  a  blessing  ?  ” 

The  Judge  looked  as  grave  as  if  he  were  about 
*/  giving  the  opinion  of  the  Court  in  the  great  In 
dia-rubber  case. 

“  On  the  whole,”  he  answered,  after  a  pause, 
K  I  should  think  it  might,  perhaps,  be  dispensed 
with  on  this  occasion.  Young  folks  are  noisy, 
and  it  is  awkward  to  have  talking  and  laughing 
going  on  while  a  blessing  is  being  asked.  Un¬ 
less  a  clergyman  is  present  and  makes  a  point 
of  it,  I  think  it  will  hardly  be  expected.” 

The  Colonel  was  infinitely  relieved.  “  Judge, 
will  you  take  Mrs.  Sprov/le  in  to  supper  ?  ”  And 
the  Colonel  returned  the  compliment  by  offering 
his  arm  to  Mrs.  Judge  Thornton. 

The  door  of  the  supper-room  was  now  open, 
and  the  company,  following  the  lead  of  the  host 
and  hostess,  began  to  stream  into  it,  until  it  was 
pretty  well  filled. 

There  was  an  awful  kind  of  pause.  Many 
were  beginning  to  drop  their  heads  and  shut 
their  eyes,  in  anticipation  of  the  usual  petition 
before  a  meal ;  some  expected  the  music  to  strike 
up, —  others,  that  an  oration  would  now  be  de¬ 
livered  by  the  Colonel. 

“  Make  yourselves  at  home,  ladies  and  gentle¬ 
men,”  said  the  Colonel ;  u  good  things  were  made 
to  cat,  and  you  ’re  welcome  to  all  you  see  before 
vou.” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


139 


So  saying,  he  attacked  a  huge  turkey  which 
stood  at  the  head  of  the  table  ;  and  his  example 
being  followed  first  by  the  bold,  then  by  the 
doubtful,  and  lastly  by  the  timid,  the  clatter  soon 
made  the  circuit  of  the  tables.  Some  were 
shocked,  however,  as  the  Colonel  had  feared 
they  would  be,  at  the  want  of  the  customary  in¬ 
vocation.  Widow  Leech,  a  kind  of  relation, 
who  had  to  be  invited,  and  who  came  with  her 
old,  back-country-looking  string  of  gold  beads 
round  her  neck,  seemed  to  feel  very  serious  about 
it. 

“  If  she’d  ha’  known  that  folks  would  begrntch 
cravin’  a  blessin’  over  sech  a  heap  o’  provisions, 
she’d  rather  ha’  staid  t’  home.  It  was  a  bad 
sign,  when  folks  wasn’t  grateful  for  the  baounties 
of  Providence.” 

The  elder  Miss  Spinney,  to  whom  she  made 
this  remark,  assented  to  it,  at  the  same  time 
ogling  a  piece  of  frosted  cake,  which  she  pres¬ 
ently  appropriated  with  great  refinement  of  man¬ 
ner,  —  taking  it  between  her  thumb  and  fore¬ 
finger,  keeping  the  others  well  spread  and  the 
little  finger  in  extreme  divergence,  with  a  grace¬ 
ful  undulation  of  the  neck,  and  a  queer  little 
sound  in  her  throat,  as  of  an  m  that  wanted  to 
get  out  and  perished  in  the  attempt. 

The  tables  now  presented  an  animated  spec¬ 
tacle.  Young  fellows  of  the  more  dashing  sort, 
*viih  high  stand-up  collars  and  voluminous  bows 
Ko  their  neckerchiefs,  distinguished  themselves  bv 


140 


ELSIE  VEXNER. 


cutting  up  fowls  and  offering  portions  thereof  to 
the  buxom  girls  these  knowing  ones  had  com* 
monly  selected. 

“  A  bit  of  the  wing,  Roxy,  or  of  the  —  unde) 
limb  ?  ” 

The  first  laugh  broke  out  at  this,  but  it  was 
premature,  a  sporadic  laugh,  as  Dr.  Kittredge 
would  have  said,  which  did  not  become  epidemic. 
People  were  very  solemn  as  yet,  many  of  them 
being  new  to  such  splendid  scenes,  and  crushed, 
as  it  were,  in  the  presence  of  so  much  crockery 
and  so  many  silver  spoons,  and  such  a  variety  of 
unusual  viands  and  beverages.  When  the  laugh 
rose  around  Roxy  and  her  saucy  beau,  several 
looked  in  that  direction  with  an  anxious  expres¬ 
sion,  as  if  something  had  happened,  —  a  lady 
fainted,  for  instance,  or  a  couple  of  lively  fellow? 
come  to  high  words. 

“  Young  folks  will  be  young  folks,”  said  Dea¬ 
con  Soper.  “  No  harm  done.  Least  said  soon¬ 
est  mended.” 

u  Have  some  of  these  shell-oysters?  ”  said  the 
Colonel  to  Mrs.  Trecothick. 

A  delicate  emphasis  on  the  word  shell  implied 
that  the  Colonel  knew  what  was  what.  To  the 
New  England  inland  native,  beyond  the  reach 
of  the  east  wfinds,  the  oyster  unconditioned,  the 
4  oyster  absolute,  without  a  qualifying  adjective, 
is  the  pickled  oyster.  Mrs.  Trecothick,  who  knew 
very  well  that  an  oyster  long  out  of  his  shell  (ag 
is  apt  to  be  the  case  with  the  rural  bivalve)  geti 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


141 


homesick  and  loses  his  sprightliness,  replied,  with 
the  pleasantest  smile  in  the  world,  that  the  chick¬ 
en  she  had  been  helped  to  was  too  delicate  to  be 
given  up  even  for  the  greater  rarity.  But  the 
word  “  shell-oysters  ”  had  been  overheard  ;  and 
'there  was  a  perceptible  crowding  movement  tow¬ 
ards  their  newly  discovered  habitat,  a  large  soup 
tureen. 

Silas  Peckham  had  meantime  fallen  upon  an¬ 
other  locality  of  these  recent  mollusks.  He  said 
nothing,  but  helped  himself  freely,  and  made  a 
sign  to  Mrs.  Peckham. 

u  Lorindy,”  he  whispered,  “  shell-oysters  !  ” 

And  ladled  them  out  to  her  largely,  without 
betraying  any  emotion,  just  as  if  they  had  been 
the  natural  inland  or  pickled  article. 

After  the  more  solid  portion  of  the  banquet 
had  been  duly  honored,  the  cakes  and  sweet 
preparations  of  various  kinds  began  to  get  their 
share  of  attention.  There  were  great  cakes  and 
little  cakes,  cakes  with  raisins  in  them,  cakes  with 
currants,  and  cakes  without  either ;  there  were 
brown  cakes  and  yellow  cakes,  frosted  cakes, 
glazed  cakes,  hearts  and  rounds,  and  jumbles , 
which  playful  youth  slip  over  the  forefinger  be® 
fore  spoiling  their  annular  outline.  There  were 
moiuds  of  blo'monje ,  of  the  arrowroot  variety, — 
that  being  undistinguishable  from  such  as  is 
made  with  Russia  isinglass.  There  were  jel¬ 
lies,  which  had  been  shaking,  all  the  time  the 
young  folks  were  dancing  in  the  next  room,  a a 


142 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


if  they  were  balancing  to  partners.  There  were 
built-up  fabrics,  called  Charlottes ,  caky  externally, 
pulpy  within ;  there  were  also  marangs ,  and  like¬ 
wise  custards,  —  some  of  the  indolent-fluid  sort, 
others  firm,  in  which  every  stroke  of  the  teaspoon 
^  left  a  smooth,  conchoidal  surface  like  the  fracture 
of  chalcedony,  with  here  and  there  a  little  eye 
like  what  one  sees  in  cheeses.  Nor  was  that 
most  wonderful  object  of  domestic  art  called 
trifle  wanting,  with  its  charming  confusion  of 
cream  and  cake  and  almonds  and  jam  and  jelly 
and  wine  and  cinnamon  and  froth  ;  nor  yet  the 
marvellous  floating-island ,  —  name  suggestive  of 
all  that  is  romantic  in  the  imaginations  of  youth¬ 
ful  palates. 

“  It  must  have  cost  you  a  sight  of  work,  to  say 
nothin’  of  money,  to  get  all  this  beautiful  confec¬ 
tionery  made  for  the  party,”  said  Mrs.  Crane  to 
Mrs.  Sprowle. 

“  Well,  it  cost  some  consid’able  labor,  no 
doubt,”  said  Mrs.  Sprowle.  “  Matilda  and  our 
girls  and  I  made  ’most  all  the  cake  with  our  own 
hands,  and  we  all  feel  some  tired  ;  but  if  folks  get 
what  suits  ’em,  we  don’t  begrudge  the  time  nor 
the  work.  But  I  do  feel  thirsty,”  said  the  poor 
lady,  “  and  I  think  a  glass  of  srub  would  do  my 
throat  good ;  it’s  dreadful  dry.  Mr.  Peckham 
would  vou  be  so  polite  as  to  pass  me  a  glass 
of  srub*?  ” 

Silas  Peckham  bowed  with  great  alacrity,  and 
took  from  the  table  a  small  glass  cup,  containing 


ELSIE  VENNER 


143 


ft  fluid  reddish  in  hue  and  subacid  in  taste.  This 
was  srub ,  a  beverage  in  local  repute,  of  question¬ 
able  nature,  but  suspected  of  owing  its  tint  and 
Bharpness  to  some  kind  of  syrup  derived  from  the 
maroon-colored  fruit  of  the  sumac.  There  were 
similar  small  cups  on  the  table  filled  with  lemon¬ 
ade,  and  here  and  there  a  decanter  of  Madeira 
wine,  of  the  Marsala  kind,  which  some  prefer  to, 
and  many  more  cannot  distinguish  from,  that 
which  comes  from  the  Atlantic  island. 

“  Take  a  glass  of  wine,  Judge,”  said  the  Col¬ 
onel  ;  “  here  is  an  article  that  I  rather  think  ’ll 
suit  you.” 

The  Judge  knew  something  of  wines,  and 
could  tell  all  the  famous  old  Madeiras  from 
each  other,  —  “Eclipse,”  “Juno,”  the  almost  fab¬ 
ulously  scarce  and  precious  “  White-top,”  and 
the  rest.  He  struck  the  nativity  of  the  Mediter¬ 
ranean  Madeira  before  it  had  fairly  moistened 
his  lip. 

“  A  sound  wine,  Colonel,  and  I  should  think 
of  a  genuine  vintage.  Your  very  good  health., 

“  Deacon  Soper,”  said  the  Colonel,  “  here  i* 
some  Madary  Judge  Thornton  recommends 
Let  me  fill  you  a  glass  of  it.” 

The  Deacon’s  eyes  glistened.  He  was  one  of 
those  consistent  Christians  who  stick  firmly  by 
the  first  miracle  and  Paul’s  advice  to  Timothy. 

“  A  little  good  wine  won’t  hurt  anybody,” 
said  the  Deacon.  “Plenty,  —  plenty,  —  plenty 
There!  ”  He  had  not  withdrawn  hia  glass*  while 


144 


ELSIE  VENNER. 

the  Colonel  was  pouring,  for  fear  it  should  spill 
and  now  it  was  running  over. 

- It  is  very  odd  how  all  a  man’s  philosophy 

and  theology  are  at  the  mercy  of  a  few  drops  of 
a  fluid  which  the  chemists  say  consists  of  nothing 
but  C  4,  O  2,  H  6.  The  Deacon’s  theology  fell 
off  several  points  towards  latitudinarianism  in  the 
course  of  the  next  ten  minutes.  He  had  a  deep 
inward  sense  that  everything  was  as  it  should  be, 
human  nature  included.  The  little  accidents  of 
humanity,  known  collectively  to  moralists  as  sin, 
looked  very  venial  to  his  growing  sense  of  univer¬ 
sal  brotherhood  and  benevolence. 

“  It  will  all  come  right,”  the  Deacon  said  to 
himself,  —  “  I  feel  a  joyful  conviction  that  every¬ 
thing  is  for  the  best.  I  am  favored  with  a  bless¬ 
ed  peace  of  mind,  and  a  very  precious  season  of 
good  feel  in’  toward  my  fellow-creturs.” 

A  lusty  young  fellow  happened  to  make  a 
quick  step  backward  just  at  that  instant,  and 
put  his  heel,  with  his  weight  on  top  of  it,  upon 
the  Deacon’s  toes. 

u  Aigh  !  What  the  d’  d’  didos  are  v’  abaou' 
with  them  great  huffs  o’  yourn?”  said  the  Dea 
con,  with  an  expression  upon  his  features  not  ex^ 
actly  that  of  peace  and  good-will  to  men.  The 
kusty  young  fellow  apologized  ;  but  the  Deacon’s 
face  did  not  come  right,  and  his  theology  backed 
round  several  points  in  the  direction  of  total  de¬ 
pravity. 

Some  of  the  dashing  young  men  in  stand-up 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


145 


fOilars  and  extensive  neck-ties,  encouraged  by 
Mr.  Geordie,  made  quite  free  with  the  “  Ma¬ 
dary,”  and  even  induced  some  of  the  more  styl¬ 
ish  girls  —  not  of  the  mansion-house  set,  but  of 
the  tip-top  two-story  families  —  to  taste  a  little. 
Most  of  these  young  ladies  made  faces  at  it,  and 
declared  it  was  u  perfectly  horrid,”  with  that  as° 
pect  of  veracity  peculiar  to  their  age  and  sex. 

About  this  time  a  movement  was  made  on 
the  part  of  some  of  the  mansion-house  people 
to  leave  the  supper-table.  Miss  Jane  Treco- 
thick  had  quietly  hinted  to  her  mother  that  she 
had  had  enough  of  it.  Miss  Arabella  Thornton 
had  whispered  to  her  father  that  he  had  better 
adjourn  this  court  to  the  next  room.  There 
were  signs  of  migration,  —  a  loosening  of  peo¬ 
ple  in  their  places, —  a  looking  about  for  arms 
to  hitch  on  to. 

“  Stop !  ”  said  the  Colonel.  u  There’s  some¬ 
thing  coming  yet. - Ice-cream !  ” 

The  great  folks  saw  that  the  play  was  not  over 
yet,  and  that  it  was  only  polite  to  stay  and  see 
it  out.  The  word  u  Ice-Cream  ”  was  no  sooner 
whispered  than  it  passed  from  one  to  another  all 
down  the  tables.  The  effect  was  what  might 
have  been  anticipated.  Many  of  the  guests  had 
never  seen  this  celebrated  product  of  human  skili, 
and  to  all  the  two-story  population  of  Rockland 
Lt  was  the  last  expression  of  the  art  of  pleasing 
and  astonishing  the  human  palate.  Its  appear¬ 
ance  had  been  deferred  for  severa*  reasons  :  first, 

10 


VOL.  I. 


4b 


ELSIE  VENXER. 


Vp- 


ct* 


/ 


\>> 


rV» 


because  everybody  would  have  attacked  it,  if  it 
had  come  in  with  the  other  luxuries*,  secondly 
because  undue  apprehensions  were  entertained 
(owing  to  want  of  experience)  of  its  tendency  to 
deliquesce  and  resolve  itself  with  alarming  rapid* 
ity  into  puddles  of  creamy  fluid ;  and,  thirdly 
because  the  surprise  would  make  a  grand  cli¬ 
max  to  finish  off  the  banquet. 

There  is  something  so  audacious  in  the  con  - 
eeption  of  ice-cream,  that  it  is  not  strange  that 
a  population  undebauched  by  the  luxury  of  great 
cities  looks  upon  it  with  a  kind  of  awe  and 
speaks  of  it  with  a  certain  emotion.  This  de¬ 
fiance  of  the  seasons,  forcing  Nature  to  do  her 
work  of  congelation  in  the  face  of  her  sultriest 
noon,  might  well  inspire  a  timid  mind  with  fear 
lest  human  art  were  revolting  against  the  Higher 
Powers,  and  raise  the  same  scruples  which  re¬ 
sisted  the  use  of  ether  and  chloroform  in  certain 


contingencies.  Whatever  may  be  the  cause,  it 
is  well  known  that  the  announcement  at  any 
private  rural  entertainment  that  there  is  to  be 
ice-cream  produces  an  immediate  and  profound 
fmpression.  It  may  be  remarked,  as  aiding  this 
impression,  that  exaggerated  ideas  are  enter¬ 
tained  as  to  the  dangerous  effects  this  con¬ 
gealed  food  may  produce  on  persons  not  in  the 
most  robust  health. 

There  was  silence  as  the  pyramids  of  ice  were 
placed  on  the  table,  everybody  looking  on  in  ad 
miration.  The  Colonel  took  a  knife  and  assaiiec 


ELSIE  YENKER. 


147 


the  one  at  the  head  of  the  table.  When  he  tried 
to  cut  off  a  slice,  it  didn’t  seem  to  understand  it, 
however,  and  only  tipped,  as  if  it  wanted  to  up- 
Bet.  The  Colonel  attacked  it  on  the  other  side 
and  it  tipped  just  as  badly  the  other  way.  It 
was  awkward  for  the  Colonel.  “  Permit  me,* 
said  the  Judge,  —  and  he  took  the  knife  and 
struck  a  sharp  slanting  stroke  which  sliced  ofl 
a  piece  just  of  the  right  size,  and  offered  it  to 
Mrs.  Sprowle.  This  act  of  dexterity  was  much 
admired  by  the  company. 

The  tables  were  all  alive  again. 

“  Lorindy,  here’s  a  plate  of  ice-cream,”  said 
Silas  Peckham. 

u  Come,  Mahaly,”  said  a  fresh-looking  young 
fellow  with  a  saucerful  in  each  hand,  11  here’s 
your  ice-cream ;  —  let’s  go  in  the  corner  and  have 
a  celebration,  us  two.”  And  the  old  green  de¬ 
laine,  with  the  young  curves  under  it  to  make  it  sit 
well,  moved  off  as  pleased  apparently  as  if  it  had 
been  silk  velvet  with  thousand-dollar  laces  over  it. 

“  Oh,  now,  Miss  Green !  do  you  think  it’s  safe 
to  put  that  cold  stuff  into  your  stomick  ?  ”  said 
the  Widow  Leech  to  a  young  married  lady, 
who,  finding  the  air  rather  warm,  thought  a  little 
ice  would  cool  her  down  very  nicely.  “  It’s  jest 
like  eatin’  snowballs.  You  don’t  look  very  rug¬ 
ged  ;  and  I  should  be  dreadful  afeard,  if  I  was 
you  ” - 

“  Carrie,”  said  old  Dr.  Kittredge,  who  had  over- 
lean!  this,  — “  how  well  you’re  looking  this  even* 


148 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


ing  !  But  you  must  be  tired  and  heated  ;  —  sit 
down  here,  and  let  me  give  you  a  good  slice  of 
ice-cream.  How  you  young  folks  do  grow  up,  to 
be  sure !  I  don’t  feel  quite  certain  whether  it’s 
you  or  your  older  sister,  but  I  know  it’s  somebody 

I  call  Carrie,  and  that  I’ve  known  ever  since  ” - — 

A  sound  something  between  a  howl  and  an 
oath  startled  the  company  and  broke  off  the  Doc¬ 
tor’s  sentence.  Everybody’s  eyes  turned  in  the 
direction  from  which  it  came.  A  group  instantly 
gathered  round  the  person  who  had  uttered  it, 
who  was  no  other  than  Deacon  Soper. 

“  He’s  chokin’ !  he’s  chokin’ !  ”  was  the  first 
exclamation,  —  “  slap  him  on  the  back!  ” 

Several  heavy  fists  beat  such  a  tattoo  on  his 
spine  that  the  Deacon  felt  as  if  at  least  one  of  his 
vertebra;  would  come  up. 

“  He’s  black  in  the  face,”  said  Widow  Leech, 
— “  he’s  swallered  somethin’  the  wrong  way. 
Where’s  the  Doctor  ?  —  let  the  Doctor  get  to  him, 
can’t  ye  ?  ” 

“  If  you  will  move,  my  good  lady,  perhaps  I 
can,”  said  Doctor  Kittredge,  in  a  calm  tone  of 
yoice.  —  “He’s  not  choking,  my  friends,”  the 
Doctor  added  immediately,  when  he  got  sight  of 
nim, 

“It’s  apoplexy, —  I  told  you  so,  —  don’t  you 
gee  how  red  he  is  in  the  face  ?  ”  said  old  Mrs 
Peake,  a  famous  woman  for  “  nussin  ”  sick  folks 
—  determined  to  be  a  little  ahead  of  the  Doctor. 
u  It’s  not  apoplexy,”  said  Dr.  Kittredge. 


ELSIE  VENEER. 


149 


What  is  it,  Doctor  ?  what  is  it  ?  Will  he  die  ? 
Is  he  dead?  —  Here’s  his  poor  wife,  the  Widow 
Soper  that  is  to  be,  if  she  a’n’t  a’ready  ” - 

“  Do  be  quiet,  my  good  woman,”  said  Dr.  Kit* 
tredge. — 11  Nothing  serious,  I  think,  Mrs.  Soper.- — 
Deacon !  ” 

The  sudden  attack  of  Deacon  Soper  had  begun 
with  the  extraordinary  sound  mentioned  above. 
His  features  had  immediately  assumed  an  expres¬ 
sion  of  intense  pain,  his  eyes  staring  wildly,  and, 
clapping  his  hands  to  his  face,  he  had  rocked  his 
head  backward  and  forward  in  speechless  agony. 

At  the  Doctor’s  sharp  appeal  the  Deacon  lifted 
his  head. 

“  It’s  all  right,”  said  the  Doctor,  as  soon  as  he 
saw  his  face.  u  The  Deacon  had  a  smart  attack 
of  neuralgic  pain.  That’s  all.  Very  severe,  but 
uot  at  all  dangerous.” 

The  Doctor  kept  his  countenance,  but  his  dia¬ 
phragm  was  shaking  the  change  in  his  waistcoat- 
pockets  with  subterranean  laughter.  He  had 
looked  through  his  spectacles  and  seen  at  once 
what  had  happened.  The  Deacon,  not  being  in 
vhe  habit  of  taking  his  nourishment  in  the  con¬ 
gealed  state,  had  treated  the  ice-cream  as  a  pud¬ 
ding  of  a  rare  species,  and,  to  make  sure  of  doing 
himself  justice  in  its  distribution,  had  taken  a 
large  mouthful  of  it  without  the  least  precaution. 
The  consequence  was  a  sensation  as  if  a  dentist 
were  killing  the  nerves  of  twenty-five  teeth  at 
i>nee  with  hot  irons,  or  cold  ones,  which  would 
fcurt  rather  worse. 


ELSIE  YE2STNER. 


1 .50 

The  Deacon  swallowed  something  with  a  spas¬ 
modic  effort,  and  recovered  pretty  soon  and  re¬ 
ceived  the  congratulations  of  his  friends.  There 
were  different  versions  of  the  expressions  he  had 
used  at  the  onset  of  his  complaint,  —  some  of  the 
reported  exclamations  involving  a  breach  of  pro¬ 
priety,  to  say  the  least,  —  but  it  was  agreed  that 
a  man  in  an  attack  of  neuralgy  wasn’t  to  be 
judged  of  by  the  rules  that  applied  to  other  folks. 

The  company  soon  after  this  retired  from  the 
supper-room.  The  mansion-house  gentry  took 
their  leave,  and  the  two-story  people  soon  fol¬ 
lowed.  Mr.  Bernard  had  staid  an  hour  or  two, 
and  left  soon  after  he  found  that  Elsie  Venner  and 
her  father  had  disappeared.  As  he  passed  by  the 
dormitory  of  the  Institute,  he  saw  a  light  glim¬ 
mering  from  one  of  its  upper  rooms,  where  the 
lady  teacher  was  still  waking.  His  heart  ached, 
when  he  remembered,  that,  through  all  these  hours 
of  gayety,  or  what  was  meant  for  it,  the  patient 
girl  had  been  at  work  in  her  little  chamber ;  and 
he  looked  up  at  the  silent  stars,  as  if  to  see  that 
they  were  watching  over  her.  The  planet  Mars 
was  burning  like  a  red  coal ;  the  northern  con¬ 
stellation  was  slanting  downward  about  its  cen¬ 
tral  point  of  flame  ;  and  while  he  looked,  a  falling 
star  slid  from  the  zenith  and  was  lost. 

He  reached  his  chamber  and  was  soon  dreaming 
over  the  Event  of  the  Season. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


151 


CHAPTER  VEX 

THE  HORNING  AFTER. 

Colonel  Sprowle’s  family  arose  late  the  next 
corning.  The  fatigues  and  excitements  of  the 
evening  and  the  preparation  for  it  were  followed 
by  a  natural  collapse,  of  which  somnolence  was 
a  leading  symptom.  The  sun  shone  into  the 
window  at  a  pretty  well  opened  angle  when  the 
Colonel  first  found  himself  sufficiently  awake  to 
address  his  yet  slumbering  spouse. 

“  Sally !”  said  the  Colonel,  in  a  voice  that  was 
a  little  husky,  —  for  he  had  finished  off  the  even¬ 
ing  with  an  extra  glass  or  two  of  “  Madary,”  and 
had  a  somewhat  rusty  and  headachy  sense  of  re¬ 
newed  existence,  on  greeting  the  rather  advanced 
dawn,  —  “  Sally !  ” 

w  Take  care  o’  them  custard-cups  !  There  they 

o  1 » 

Poor  Mrs.  Sprowle  was  fighting  the  party  over 
in  her  dream  ;  and  as  the  visionary  custard-cups 
crashed  down  through  one  lobe  of  her  brain  into 
another,  she  gave  a  start  as  if  an  inch  of  lightning 
from  a  quart  Leyden  jar  had  jumped  into  one  of 
her  knuckles  with  its  sudden  and  lively  poonk  ! 


ELSIE  YEN  NEE. 


152 

“  Sally!”  said  the  Colonel, —  “wake  up,  wake 
up  !  What  V  y’  dreamin’  abaout  ?  ” 

Mrs.  Sprowle  raised  herself,  by  a  sort  of  spasm, 
sur  son  seant ,  as  they  say  in  France,  —  up  on  end, 
as  we  have  it  in  New  England.  She  looked  first 
to  the  left,  then  to  the  right,  then  straight  before 
her,  apparently  without  seeing  anything,  and  at 
last  slowly  settled  down,  with  her  two  eyes,  blank 
of  any  particular  meaning,  directed  upon  tfcs 
Colonel. 

“  What  time  is’t  ?  ”  she  said. 

“  Ten  o’clock.  What  ’y’  been  dreamin’  abaout  1 
Y’  giv  a  jump  like  a  hoppergrass.  Wake  up, 
wake  up !  Th’  party’s  over,  and  y’  been  asleep 
all  the  mornin’.  The  party’s  over,  I  tell  ye! 
Wake  up !  ” 

“  Over !  ”  said  Mrs.  Sprowle,  who  began  to  de¬ 
fine  her  position  at  last,  —  “  over !  I  should  think 
’twas  time  ’twas  over!  It’s  lasted  a  hundud  year 
I’ve  been  workin’  for  that  party  longer  ’n  Methu¬ 
selah’s  lifetime,  sence  I  been  asleep.  The  piefe 
wouldn’  bake,  and  the  blo’monge  wouldn’  set,  and 
the  ice-cream  wouldn’  freeze,  and  all  the  folks  kep* 
cornin’  ’n’  cornin’  ’n’  cornin’,  —  everybody  I  ever 
knew  in  all  my  life,  —  some  of  ’em ’s  been  dead 
this  twenty  year  ’n’  more, —  ’n’  nothin’  for  ’em  to 
cat  nor  drink.  The  fire  wouldn’  burn  to  cook 
anything,  all  we  could  do.  We  blowed  with  the 
belluses,  ’n’  we  stuffed  in  paper  ’n’  pitch-pine  kin- 
dlin’s,  but  nothin’  could  make  that  fire  burn  ;  ’n 
all  the  time  the  folks  kep’  earnin’,  as  if  they’</ 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


153 


never  stop,  —  ’n’  nothin’  for  ’em  but  empty  dishes, 
hi’  all  the  borrowed  chariey  slippin’  round  on  the 
waiters  ’n’  chippin’  ’n’  crackin’,  —  I  wouldn’  go 
through  what  I  been  through  t’-night  for  all  th’ 
money  in  th’  Bank, —  I  do  believe  it’s  harder  t’ 
have  a  party  than  t’  ” - 

Mrs.  Sprowle  stated  the  case  strongly. 

The  Colonel  said  he  didn’t  know  how  that 
might  be.  She  was  a  better  judge  than  he  was, 
It  was  bother  enough,  anyhow,  and  he  was  glad 
that  it  was  over.  After  this,  the  worthy  pair  com- 
menced  preparations  for  rejoining  the  waking 
world,  and  in  due  time  proceeded  down-stairs. 

Everybody  was  late  that  morning,  and  nothing 
had  got  put  to  rights.  The  house  looked  as  if  a 
small  army  had  been  quartered  in  it  over  night. 
The  tables  were  of  course  in  huge  disorder,  after 
the  protracted  assault  they  had  undergone.  There 
had  been  a  great  battle  evidently,  and  it  had  gone 
against  the  provisions.  Some  points  had  been 
stormed,  and  all  their  defences  annihilated,  but 
here  and  there  were  centres  of  resistance  which 
had  held  out  against  all  attacks,  —  large  rounds 
of  beef,  and  solid  loaves  of  cake,  against  which 
the  inexperienced  had  wasted  their  energies  in 
the  enthusiasm  of  youth  or  uninformed  maturity 
while  the  longer-headed  guests  were  making  dis¬ 
coveries  of  “  shell-oysters  ”  and  u  patridges  ”  and 
gimilar  delicacies. 

The  breakfast  was  naturally  of  a  somewhat 
fragmentary  character.  A  chicken  that  had  lost 


154 


ELSIE  YEN  NEE 


his  legs  in  the  service  of  the  preceding  campaign 
was  once  more  put  on  duty.  A  great  ham  stucii 
with  cloves,  as  Saint  Sebastian  was  with  arrows, 
was  again  offered  for  martyrdom.  It  would  havo 
been  a  pleasant  sight  for  a  medical  man  of  a 
speculative  turn  to  have  seen  the  prospect  before 
the  Colonel’s  family  of  the  next  week’s  breakfasts, 
dinners,  and  suppers.  The  trail  that  one  of  these 
great  rural  parties  leaves  after  it  is  one  of  its  most 
formidable  considerations.  Every  door-handle  in 
the  house  is  suggestive  of  sweetmeats  for  the 
next  week,  at  least.  The  most  unnatural  articles 
of  diet  displace  the  frugal  but  nutritious  food  of 
unconvulsed  periods  of  existence.  If  there  is  a 
walking  infant  about  the  house,  it  will  certainly 
have  a  more  or  less  fatal  fit  from  overmuch  of 
some  indigestible  delicacy.  Before  the  week  is 
out,  everybody  will  be  tired  to  death  of  sugary 
forms  of  nourishment  and  long  to  see  the  last  of 
the  remnants  of  the  festival. 

The  family  had  not  yet  arrived  at  this  condi¬ 
tion.  On  the  contrary,  the  first  inspection  of  the 
tables  suggested  the  prospect  of  days  of  unstinted 
luxury  ;  and  the  younger  portion  of  the  house¬ 
hold,  especially,  were  in  a  state  of  great  excite¬ 
ment  as  the  account  of  stock  was  taken  with 
reference  to  future  internal  investments.  Some 
curious  facts  came  to  light  during  these  re¬ 
searches. 

u  Where’s  all  the  oranges  gone  to  ?  ”  said  Mrs 
6prowle.  “ 1  expected  there’d  be  ever  so  man* 


ELSIE  VEENER. 


155 


df  ’em  left.  I  didn’t  see  many  of  the  folks  eat* 
in’  oranges.  Where’s  the  skins  of  ’em?  There 
ought  to  be  six  dozen  orange-skins  round  on  the 
plates,  and  there  a’n’t  one  dozen.  And  all  the 
small  cakes,  too,  and  all  the  sugar  things  that  was 
stuck  on  the  big  cakes.  Has  anybody  counted 
the  spoons  ?  Some  of  ’em  got  swallered,  perhaps. 
I  hope  they  was  plated  ones,  if  they  did !  ” 

The  failure  of  the  morning’s  orange-crop  and 
the  deficit  in  other  expected  residual  delicacies 
were  not  very  difficult  to  account  for.  In  many 
of  the  two-story  Rockland  families,  and  in  those 
favored  households  of  the  neighboring  villages 
whose  members  had  been  invited  to  the  great 
party,  there  was  a  very  general  excitement  among 
the  younger  people  on  the  morning  after  the  great 
event.  “  Did  y’  bring  home  somethin’  from  the 
party  ?  What  is  it  ?  What  is  it  ?  Is  it  frut- 
eake  ?  Is  it  nuts  and  oranges  and  apples  ?  Give 
me  some  !  Give  me  some !  ”  Such  a  concert  of 
treble  voices  uttering  accents  like  these  had  not 
been  heard  since  the  great  Temperance  Festival 
with  the  celebrated  “  eolation  ”  in  the  open  air 
under  the  trees  of  the  Parnassian  Grove, —  as  the 
place  was  christened  by  the  young  ladies  of  the 
Institute.  The  cry  of  the  children  was  not  in 
Tain.  From  the  pockets  Df  demure  fathers,  from 
the  bags  of  sharp-eyed  spinsters,  from  the  folded 
handkerchiefs  of  light-fingered  sisters,  from  the 
tall  hats  of  sly-winking  brothers,  there  was  a 
resurrection  of  the  missing  oranges  and  cakes  and 


L56 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


Bugar-things  in  many  a  rejoicing  family-circle, 
enough  to  astonish  the  most  hardened  “  caterer  ” 
that  ever  contracted  to  feed  a  thousand  people 
under  canvas. 

The  tender  recollection  of  those  dear  little  ones 
whom  extreme  youth  or  other  pressing  considera* 
tions  detain  from  scenes  of  festivity  — -  a  trait  of 
affection  by  no  means  uncommon  among  oui 
thoughtful  people  —  dignifies  those  social  meet¬ 
ings  where  it  is  manifested,  and  sheds  a  ray  of 
sunshine  on  our  common  nature.  It  is  u  an  oasis 
in  the  desert,”  —  to  use  the  striking  expression  of 
the  last  year’s  u  Valedictorian  ”  of  the  Apollinean 
Institute.  In  the  midst  of  so  much  that  is  purely 
selfish,  it  is  delightful  to  meet  such  disinterested 
care  for  others.  When  a  large  family  of  children 
are  expecting  a  parent’s  return  from  an  entertain¬ 
ment,  it  will  often  require  great  exertions  on  his 
part  to  freight  himself  so  as  to  meet  their  reasona¬ 
ble  expectations.  A  few  rules  are  worth  remem¬ 
bering  by  all  who  attend  anniversary  dinners  in 
Faneuil  Hall  or  elsewhere.  Thus  :  Lobsters 
claws  are  always  acceptable  to  children  of  af 
ages.  Oranges  and  apples  are  to  be  taken  on, 
at  a  time ,  until  the  coat-pockets  begin  to  become 
inconveniently  heavy.  Cakes  are  injured  by  sit> 
ting  upon  them ;  it  is,  therefore,  well  to  carry  a 
Btout  tin  box  of  a  size  to  hold  as  many  pieces  as 
there  are  children  in  the  domestic  circle.  A  very 
pleasant  amusement,  at  the  close  of  one  of  these 
banquets,  is  grabbing  for  the  flowers  with  which 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


157 


the  table  is  embellished.  These  will  please  the 
ladies  at  home  very  greatly,  and,  if  the  children 
are  at  the  same  time  abundantly  supplied  wilh 
fruits,  nuts,  cakes,  and  any  little  ornamental  arti¬ 
cles  of  confectionery  which  are  of  a  nature  to  be 
unostentatiously  removed,  the  kind-hearted  parent 
will  make  a  whole  household  happy,  without 
any  additional  expense  beyond  the  outlay  for  his 
ticket. 

There  were  fragmentary  delicacies  enough  left, 
of  one  kind  and  another,  at  any  rate,  to  make  all 
die  Colonel’s  family  uncomfortable  for  the  next 
week.  It  bid  fair  to  take  as  long  to  get  rid  of  the 
remains  of  the  great  party  as  it  had  taken  to  make 
ready  for  it. 

In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Bernard  had  been  dream¬ 
ing,  as  young  men  dream,  of  gliding  shapes  with 
bright  eyes  and  burning  cheeks,  strangely  blended 
with  red  planets  and  hissing  meteors,  and,  shining 
over  all,  the  white,  unwandering  star  of  the  North, 
girt  with  its  tethered  constellations. 

After  breakfast  he  walked  into  the  parlor,  where 
he  found  Miss  Darley.  She  was  alone,  and,  hold* 
ing  a  school-book  in  her  hand,  was  at  work  with 
one  of  the  morning’s  lessons.  She  hardly  noticed 
him  as  he  entered,  being  very  busy  with  her  book, 
«=—  and  he  paused  a  moment  before  speaking,  and 
looked  at  her  with  a  kind  of  reverence.  It  would 
not  have  been  strictly  true  to  call  her  beautiful 
For  years, —  since  her  earliest  womanhood, — 
those  slender  hands  had  taken  the  bread  wbicl* 


158 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


repaid  the  toil  of  heart  and  brain  from  the  coarse 
Dalms  which  offered  it  in  the  world’s  rude  market 

I 

It  was  not  for  herself  alone  that  she  had  bartered 
away  the  life  of  her  youth,  that  she  had  breathed 
the  hot  air  of  school-rooms,  that  she  had  forced 
her  intelligence  to  posture  before  her  will,  as  the. 
exigencies  of  her  place  required,  —  waking  tc 
mental  labor,  —  sleeping  to  dream  of  problems, — 
rolling  up  the  stone  of  education  for  an  endless 
twelvemonth’s  term,  to  find  it  at  the  bottom  of 
the  hill  again  when  another  year  called  her  to  its 
renewed  duties,  —  schooling  her  temper  in  unend¬ 
ing  inward  and  outward  conflicts,  until  neither 
dulness  nor  obstinacy  nor  ingratitude  nor  inso¬ 
lence  could  reach  her  serene  self-possession.  Not 
for  herself  alone.  Poorly  as  her  prodigal  labors 
were  repaid  in  proportion  to  the  waste  of  life 
they  cost,  her  value  was  too  well  established  to 
leave  her  without  what,  under  other  circumstances, 
would  have  been  a  more  than  sufficient  compensa¬ 
tion.  But  there  were  others  who  looked  to  her  in 
their  need,  and  so  the  modest  fountain  which 
might  have  been  filled  to  its  brim  was  continually 
drained  through  silent-flowing,  hidden  sluices. 

Out  of  such  a  life,  inherited  from  a  race  which 
^).ad  lived  in  conditions  not  unlike  her  own,  beautyf 
in  the  common  sense  of  the  term,  could  hardly 
find  leisure  to  develop  and  shape  itself.  For  il 
must  be  remembered,  that  symmetry  and  elegance 
of  features  and  figure,  like  perfectly  formed  crys* 
tals  in  the  mineral  world,  are  reached  only  by  in 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


159 


curing  a  certain  necessary  repose  to  individuals 
and  to  generations.  Human  beauty  is  an  agri¬ 
cultural  product  in  the  country,  growing  up  in 
men  and  women  as  in  corn  and  cattle,  where  the 
3oil  is  good.  It  is  a  luxury  almost  monopolized 
by  the  rich  in  cities,  bred  under  glass  like  their 
forced  pine-apples  and  peaches.  Both  in  city  and 
country,  the  evolution  of  the  physical  harmonies 
which  make  music  to  our  eyes  requires  a  combi¬ 
nation  of  favorable  circumstances,  of  which  alter¬ 
nations  of  unburdened  tranquillity  with  intervals 
of  varied  excitement  of  mind  and  body  are  among 
the  most  important.  Where  sufficient  excitement 
is  wanting,  as  often  happens  in  the  country,  the 
features,  however  rich  in  red  and  white,  get  heavy, 
and  the  movements  sluggish  ;  where  excitement 
is  furnished  in  excess,  as  is  frequently  the  case  in 
cities,  the  contours  and  colors  are  impoverished, 
and  the  nerves  begin  to  make  their  existence 
known  to  the  consciousness,  as  the  face  very  soon 
informs  us. 

Helen  Darley  could  not,  in  the  nature  of  things, 
have  possessed  the  kind  of  beauty  which  pleases 
the  common  taste.  Her  eye  was  calm,  sad-look- 
*ng,  her  features  very  still,  except  when  her  pleas¬ 
ant  smile  changed  them  for  a  moment,  all  her 
outlines  were  delicate,  ner  voice  was  very  gentle, 
but  somewhat  subdued  by  years  of  thoughtful 
ifetbor,  and  on  her  smooth  forehead  one  little 
flinted  line  whispered  alreadv  that  Care  was  be¬ 
ginning  to  mark  the  trace  which  Time  sooner  01 


160 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


tater  would  make  a  furrow.  She  could  n ot  be  a 
beauty ;  if  she  had  been,  it  would  have  been 
much  harder  for  many  persons  to  be  interested  in 
her.  For,  although  in  the  abstract  we  all  love 
beauty,  and  although,  if  we  were  sent  naked 
souls  into  some  ultramundane  warehouse  of  soul¬ 
less  bodies  and  told  to  select  one  to  our  liking,  we 
should  each  choose  a  handsome  one,  and  never 
think  of  the  consequences,  —  it  is  quite  certain 
that  beauty  carries  an  atmosphere  of  repulsion  as 
well  as  of  attraction  with  it,  alike  in  both  sexes. 
We  may  be  well  assured  that  there  are  many  per¬ 
sons  who  no  more  think  of  specializing  their  love 
of  the  other  sex  upon  one  endowed  with  signal 
beauty,  than  they  think  of  wanting  great  dia¬ 
monds  or  thousand-dollar  horses.  No  man  or 
woman  can  appropriate  beauty  without  paying 
for  it,  —  in  endowments,  in  fortune,  in  position, 
in  self-surrender,  or  other  valuable  stock  ;  and 
there  are  a  great  many  who  are  too  poor,  too 
ordinary,  too  humble,  too  busy,  too  proud,  to  pay 
any  of  these  prices  for  it.  So  the  unbeautiful 
get  many  more  lovers  than  the  beauties  ;  only,  as 
there  are  more  of  them,  their  lovers  are  spread 
thinner  and  do  not  make  so  much  show. 

The  young  master  stood  looking  at  Helen  Dar- 
Ley  with  a  kind  of  tender  admiration.  She  waa 
Bach  a  picture  of  the  martyr  by  the  slow  social 
vombustive  process,  that  it  almost  seemed  to  him 
he  could  see  a  pale  lambent  nimbus  round  he? 
head. 


ELSIE  VEJTNER. 


161 


“  1  did  not  see  you  at  the  great  party  last  even* 
ing,”  he  said,  presently. 

She  looked  up  and  answered,  “  No.  I  have 
not  much  taste  for  such  large  companies.  Be¬ 
sides,  I  do  not  feel  as  if  my  time  belonged  to  me 
after  it  has  been  paid  for.  There  is  always  some¬ 
thing  to  do,  some  lesson  or  exercise,  —  and  it  so 
happened,  I  was  very  busy  last  night  with  the 
new  problems  in  geometry.  I  hope  you  had  a 
good  time.” 

“  Very.  Two  or  three  of  our  girls  were  there. 
Rosa  Milburn.  What  a  beauty  she  is!  I  won¬ 
der  what  she  feeds  on  !  Wine  and  musk  and 
chloroform  and  coals  of  fire,  I  believe  ;  I  didn’t 
think  there  was  such  color  and  flavor  in  a  woman 
outside  the  tropics.” 

Miss  Darley  smiled  rather  faintly;  the  imagery 
was  not  just  to  her  taste  :  femineity  often  finds  it 
very  hard  to  accept  the  fact  of  muliebrity. 

“  Was  ” - ? 

She  stopped  short ;  but  her  question  had  asked 
itself. 

“  Elsie  there  ?  She  was,  for  an  hour  or  so. 
She  looked  frightfully  handsome.  I  meant  to 
have  spoken  to  her,  but  she  slipped  away  before  1 
knew  it.” 

“  I  thought  she  meant  to  go  to  the  party,”  said 
Miss  Darley.  “  Did  she  look  at  you?  ” 

“  She  did.  Why  ?  ” 

u  And  you  did  not  speak  to  her?  ” 

M  No.  J  should  have  spoken  to  her,  but  she 

ii 


YOL.  I. 


162 


ELSIE  VENTSTER. 


was  gone  when  I  looked  for  her.  A  strange  creat- 
X  lire !  Isn’t  there  an  odd  sort  of  fascination  about 
her  ?  You  have  not  explained  all  the  m)  story 
about  Che  girl.  What  does  she  come  to  this 
school  for  1  She  seems  to  do  pretty  much  as  she 
likes  about  studying.” 

Miss  Darley  answered  in  very  low  tones.  “  It 
was  a  fancy  of  hers  to  come,  and  they  let  her 
have  her  way.  I  don’t  know  what  there  is  about 
her,  except  that  she  seems  to  take  my  life  out  of 
me  when  she  looks  at  me.  I  don’t  like  to  ask 
other  people  about  our  girls.  She  says  very  little 
to  anybody,  and  studies,  or  makes  believe  to  study, 
almost  what  she  likes.  I  don’t  know  what  she 
is,”  (Miss  Darley  laid  her  hand,  trembling,  on  the 
young  master’s  sleeve,)  “  but  I  can  tell  when  she 
is  in  the  room  without  seeing  or  hearing  her.  Oh, 
Mr.  Langdon,  I  am  weak  and  nervous,  and  no 
doubt  foolish,  —  but  —  if  there  were  women  now, 
C  as  in  the  days  of  our  Saviour,  possessed  of  devils, 
I  should  think  there  was  something  not  human 
Looking  out  of  Elsie  Yenner’s  eyes!” 

The  poor  girl’s  breast  rose  and  fell  tumultuously 
as  she  spoke,  and  her  voice  labored,  as  if  some 
obstruction  were  rising  in  her  throat. 

A  scene  might  possibly  have  come  of  it,  but  the 
door  opened.  Mr.  Silas  Peckham.  Miss  Darley 
got  away  as  soon  as  she  well  could. 

(t  Why  did  not  Miss  Darley  go  to  the  party  las* 
veiling  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Bernard. 

M  Well,  the  fact  is,”  answered  Mr.  Silas  Peck 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


163 


ham,  4  Miss  Darley,  she ’s  pooty  much  took  up 
with  the  school.  She’s  an  industris  young  wom¬ 
an, —  yis,  she  is  industris,  —  but  perhaps  she  a’n’t 
quite  so  spry  a  worker  as  some.  Maybe,  consid¬ 
erin’  she’s  paid  for  her  time,  she  isn’t  fur  out  o’ 
the  way  in  occoopyin’  herself  evenin’s,  —  that  is, 
if  so  be  she  a’n’t  smart  enough  to  finish  up  all  her 
work  in  the  daytime.  Edoocation  is  the  great  busi¬ 
ness  of  the  Institoot.  Amoosements  are  objec’s 
of  a  secondary  natur’,  accordin’  to  my  v’oo.” 
[The  unspellable  pronunciation  of  this  word  is 
the  touchstone  of  New  England  Brahminism.] 
Mr.  Bernard  drew  a  deep  breath,  his  thin  nos¬ 
trils  dilating,  as  if  the  air  did  not  rush  in  fast 
enough  to  cool  his  blood,  while  Silas  Peckham 
was  speaking.  The  Head  of  the  Apollinean  In¬ 
stitute  delivered  himself  of  these  judicious  senti¬ 
ments  in  that  peculiar  acid,  penetrating  tone, 
thickened  with  a  nasal  twang,  which  not  rarely 
becomes  hereditary  after  three  or  four  generations 
raised  upon  east  winds,  salt  fish,  and  large,  white- 
bellied,  pickled  cucumbers.  He  spoke  deliberate¬ 
ly,  as  if  weighing  his  words  well,  so  that,  during 
his  few  remarks,  Mr.  Bernard  had  time  for  a  men¬ 
tal  accompaniment  with  variations,  accented  by 
certain  bodily  changes,  which  escaped  Mr.  Peck- 
ham’s  observation.  First  there  was  a  feeling  of 
disgust  and  shame  at  hearing  Helen  Darley 
frpoken  of  like  a  dumb  working  animal.  That 
bent  the  blood  up  into  his  cheeks.  Then  the  slui 
upon  her  probable  want  of  force  —  her  incapacity 


* 


[64 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


who  made  the  character  of  the  school  and  left 
this  man  to  pocket  its  profits  —  sent  a  thrill  of 
the  old  Wentworth  fire  through  him,  so  that  hisf 
muscles  hardened,  his  hands  closed,  and  he  took 
the  measure  of  Mr.  Silas  Peckham,  to  see  if  hia 
head  would  strike  the  wall  in  case  he  went  over 
backwards  all  of  a  sudden.  This  would  not  d 
of  course,  and  so  the  thrill  passed  off  and  the 
muscles  softened  again.  Then  came  that  statp 
of  tenderness  in  the  heart,  overlying  wrath  in  the 
stomach,  in  which  the  eyes  grow  moist  like  a 
woman’s,  and  there  is  also  a  great  boiling-up  of 
objectionable  terms  out  of  the  deep-water  vocabu¬ 
lary,  so  that  Prudence  and  Propriety  and  all  the 
other  pious  Ps  have  to  jump  upon  the  lid  of 
speech  to  keep  them  from  boiling  over  into  fierce 
articulation.  All  this  was  internal,  chiefly,  and 
of  course  not  recognized  by  Mr.  Silas  Peckham. 
The  idea,  that  any  full-grown,  sensible  man 
should  have  any  other  notion  than  that  of  getting 
the  most  work  for  the  least  money  out  of  his  as¬ 
sistants,  had  never  suggested  itself  to  him. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  gone  through  this  paroxysm, 
aud  cooled  down,  in  the  period  while  Mr.  Peck¬ 
ham  was  uttering  these  words  in  his  thin,  shal¬ 
low  whine,  twanging  up  into  the  frontal  sinuses, 
What  was  the  use  of  losing  his  temper  and 
throwing  away  his  place,  and  so,  among  the  con« 
sequences  which  would  necessarily  follow,  leav¬ 
ing  the  poor  lady-teacher  without  a  friend  tc 
stand  by  her  ready  to  lay  his  hand  on  the  grand 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


165 


Inquisitor  before  the  windlass  of  his  rack  had 
taken  one  turn  too  many? 

“  No  doubt,  Mr.  Peckham,”  he  said,  in  a  grave, 
calm  voice,  “  there  is  a  great  deal  of  work  to  be 
done  in  the  school ;  but  perhaps  we  can  distrib¬ 
ute  tile  duties  a  little  more  evenly  after  a  time. 
I  shall  look  over  the  girls’  themes  myself,  after 
this  week.  Perhaps  there  will  be  some  other 
parts  of  her  labor  that  I  can  take  on  myself. 
We  can  arrange  a  new  programme  of  studies 
and  recitations.” 

“We  can  do  that,”  said  Mr.  Silas  Peckham. 
“But  I  don’t  propose  mater’lly  alterin’  Miss  Dar- 
ley’s  dooties.  I  don’t  think  she  works  to  hurt 
herself.  Some  of  the  Trustees  have  proposed 
interdoosin’  new  branches  of  study,  and  I  expect 
you  will  be  pooty  much  occoopied  with  the  doo¬ 
ties  that  belong  to  your  place.  On  the  Sahbath 
you  will  be  able  to  attend  divine  service  three 
times,  which  is  expected  of  our  teachers.  I  shall 
continoo  myself  to  give  Sahbath  Scriptur’-read- 
in’s  to  the  young  ladies.  That  is  a  solemn  dooty 
I  can’t  make  up  my  mind  to  commit  to  other 
people.  My  teachers  enjoy  the  Lord’s  day  as  a 
day  of  rest.  In  it  they  do  no  manner  of  work,  — 
except  in  cases  of  necessity  or  mercy,  such  as 
fillin’  out  diplomas,  or  when  we  git  crowded  jest 
at  the  end  of  a  term,  or  when  there  is  an  extry 
number  of  p’lopils,  or  other  Providential  call  to 
dispense  with  the  ordinance.” 

Mr.  Bernard  had  a  fine  glow  in  his  cheeks  by 


166 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


this  time,  —  doubtless  kindled  by  the  though'  ol 
the  kind  consideration  Mr.  Peckham  showed  to: 
his  subordinates  in  allowing  them  the  between' 
meeting-time  on  Sundays  except  for  some  special 
reason.  But  the  morning  was  wearing  away ; 
bo  he  went  to  the  school-room,  taking  leave  very 
properly  of  his  respected  principal,  who  soon  took 
his  hat  and  departed. 

Mr.  Peckham  visited  certain  11  stores  ”  or  shops, 
where  he  made  inquiries  after  various  articles  in 
the  provision-line,  and  effected  a  purchase  or  two. 
Two  or  three  barrels  of  potatoes,  which  had 
sprouted  in  a  promising  way,  he  secured  at  a 
bargain.  A  side  of  feminine  beef  was  also  ob¬ 
tained  at  a  low  figure.  He  was  entirely  satisfied 
with  a  couple  of  barrels  of  flour,  which,  being  in¬ 
voiced  “  slightly  damaged,”  were  to  be  had  at  a 
reasonable  price. 

After  this,  Silas  Peckham  felt  in  good  spirits. 
He  had  done  a  pretty  stroke  of  business.  It 
came  into  his  head  whether  he  might  not  follow 
it  up  with  a  still  more  brilliant  speculation.  So 
he  turned  his  steps  in  the  direction  of  Colonel 
Sprowle’s. 

It  was  now  eleven  o’clock,  and  the  battle-field 
of  last  evening  was  as  we  left  it.  Mr.  Peckham’s 
visit  was  unexpected,  perhaps  not  very  well  timed, 
but  the  Colonel  received  him  civilly. 

“  Beautifully  lighted, — these  rooms  last  night! 
Baid  Mr.  Peckham.  u  Winter-strained  ?  ” 

The  Colonel  nodded. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


167 


“  How  much  do  you  pay  for  your  winter- 
strained  ?  ” 

The  Colonel  told  him  the  price. 

u  Very  hahnsome  supper,  —  very  hahnsome  . 
Nothin,  ever  seen  like  it  in  Rockland.  Must 
have  been  a  great  heap  of  things  left  over.” 

The  compliment  was  not  ungrateful,  and  the 
Colonel  acknowledged  it  by  smiling  and  saying, 
u  I  should  think  the’  was  a  trifle !  Come  and 
look.” 

When  Silas  Peckham  saw  how  many  delica¬ 
cies  had  survived  the  evening’s  conflict,  his  com¬ 
mercial  spirit  rose  at  once  to  the  point  of  a 
proposal. 

u  Colonel  Sprowle,”  said  he,  “  there’s  meat  and 
cakes  and  pies  and  pickles  enough  on  that  table 
to  spread  a  hahnsome  eolation.  If  you’d  like  to 
trade  reasonable,  I  think  perhaps  I  should  be 
willin’  to  take  ’em  off  your  hands.  There’s  been 
a  talk  about  our  havin’  a  celebration  in  the  Par¬ 
nassian  Grove,  and  I  think  I  could  work  in  what 
your  folks  don’t  want  and  make  m 
chargin’  a  small  sum  for  tickets.  Broken  meats, 
of  course,  a’n’t  of  the  same  valoo  as  fresh  pro¬ 
visions  ;  so  I  think  you  might  be  willin’  to  trade 
liasonable.” 

Mr.  Peckham  paused  and  rested  on  his  propo¬ 
sal.  It  would  not,  perhaps,  have  been  very  ex¬ 
traordinary,  if  Colone.  Sprowle  had  entertained 
the  proposition.  There  is  no  telling  beforehand 
bow  such  things  will  strike  people.  It  didn’t 


yself  whole  by 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


168 

\  f 

happen  to  strike  the  Colonel  favorably.  He  had 
a  little  red-blooded  manhood  in  him. 

“  Sell  yon  them  things  to  make  a  eolation  out 
of?”  the  Colonel  replied.  “Walk  up  to  that 
table.  Mr.  Peckham,  and  help  yourself!  Fill 
your  pockets,  Mr.  Peckham !  Fetch  a  basket 
and  our  hired  folks  shall  fill  it  full  for  ye!  Send  a 
cart,  if  y’  like,  ’n’  carry  off  them  leavin’s  to  make 
a  celebration  for  your  pupils  with  !  Only  let  me 
tell  ye  this :  —  as  sure’s  my  name’s  Hezekiak 
Spraowle,  you’ll  be  known  through  the  taown 
n’  through  the  caounty,  from  that  day  forrard,  as 
/  the  Principal  of  the  Broken- Victuals  Institoot !  ” 

Even  provincial  human-nature  sometimes  has 
a  touch  of  sublimity  about  it.  Mr.  Silas  Peck¬ 
ham  had  gone  a  little  deeper  than  he  meant,  and 
come  upon  the  “  hard  pan,”  as  the  well-diggers 
call  it,  of  the  Colonel’s  character,  before  he  thought 
of  it.  A  militia-colonel  standing  on  his  senti¬ 
ments  is  not  to  be  despised.  That  was  shown 
pretty  well  in  New  England  two  or  three  gen¬ 
erations  ago.  There  were  a  good  many  plain  offi¬ 
cers  that  talked  about  their  “  rigiment  ”  and  their 
“  caounty  ”  who  knew  very  well  how  to  say 
u  Make  ready  1  ”  “  Take  aim !  ”  “  Fire  !  ”  —  in 
the  face  of  a  line  of  grenadiers  with  bullets  in 
their  guns  and  bayonets  on  them.  And  though 
a  rustic  uniform  is  not  always  unexceptionable 
in  its  cut  and  trimmings,  yet  there  was  many  ail 
ill-made  coat  in  those  old  times  that  was  gooc 
enough  to  be  shown  to  the  enemy’s  front  rank 


ELSIE  VEXNEK 


169 


too  often  to  be  left  on  the  field  with  a  round  hole 
in  its  left  lapel  that  matched  another  going  right 
through  the  brave  heart  of  the  plain  country  cap¬ 
tain  or  major  or  colonel  who  was  buried  in  it 
under  the  crimson  turf. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  said  little  or  nothing.  Ilia 
sensibilities  were  not  acute,  but  he  perceived  that 
he  had  made  a  miscalculation.  He  hoped  that 
there  was  no  offence,  —  thought  it  might  have 
been  mutooally  agreeable,  conclooded  he  would 
give  up  the  idee  of  a  eolation,  and  backed  him¬ 
self  out  as  if  unwilling  to  expose  the  less  guarded 
aspect  of  his  person  to  the  risk  of  accelerating 
impulses. 

The  Colonel  shut  the  door,  —  cast  his  eye  on 
the  toe  of  his  right  boot,  as  if  it  had  had  a  strong 
temptation, — looked  at  his  watch,  then  round 
the  room,  and,  going  to  a  cupboard,  swallowed  a 
glass  of  deep-red  brandy  and  water  to  compose 
his  feelings. 


170 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

THE  DOCTOR  ORDERS  THE  BEST  SULKY. 

( With  a  Digression  on  “ Hired  Help” ) 

u  Abel  !  Slip  Cassia  into  the  new  sulky,  and 
fetch  her  round.” 

Abel  was  Dr.  Kittredge’s  hired  man.  He  was 
born  in  New  Hampshire,  a  queer  sort  of  State, 
with  fat  streaks  of  soil  and  population  where 
they  breed  giants  in  mind  and  body,  and  lean 
streaks  which  export  imperfectly  nourished  young 
men  with  promising  but  neglected  appetites,  who 
may  be  found  in  great  numbers  in  all  the  large 
towns,  or  could  be  until  of  late  years,  when  they 
have  been  half  driven  out  of  their  favorite  base¬ 
ment-stories  by  foreigners,  and  half  coaxed  away 
from  them  by  California.  New  Hampshire  is  in 
more  than  one  sense  the  Switzerland  of  New 
England.  The  “  Granite  State  ”  being  naturally 
enough  deficient  in  pudding-stone,  its  children  are 
apt  to  wander  southward  in  search  of  that  de¬ 
posit,  —  in  the  unpetrified  condition. 

Abel  Stebbins  was  a  good  specimen  of  that 
extraordinary  hybrid  or  mule  between  demoo 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


171 


racy  and  chrysocracy,  a  native-born  New-England 
serving-man.  The  Old  World  has  nothing  at  all 
like  him.  He  is  at  once  an  emperor  and  a  sub¬ 
ordinate.  In  one  hand  he  holds  one  five-millionth 
part  (be  the  same  more  or  less)  of  the  power  that 
Bways  the  destinies  of  the  Great  Republic.  Ilia 
other  hand  is  in  your  boot,  which  he  is  about  to 
polish.  It  is  impossible  to  turn  a  fellow-citizen 
whose  vote  may  make  his  master  —  say,  rather, 
employer — Governor  or  President,  or  who  may 
be  one  or  both  himself,  into  a  flunky.  That 
article  must  be  imported  ready-made  from  other 
centres  of  civilization.  When  a  New  Englander 
has  lost  his  self-respect  as  a  citizen  and  as  a  man, 
he  is  demoralized,  and  cannot  be  trusted  with  the 
money  to  pay  for  a  dinner. 

It  may  be  supposed,  therefore,  that  this  frac¬ 
tional  emperor,  this  continent-shaper,  finds  his 
position  awkward  when  he  goes  into  service,  and 
that  his  employer  is  apt  to  find  it  still  more  em¬ 
barrassing.  It  is  always  under  protest  that  the 
hired  man  does  his  duty.  Every  act  of  service  is 
subject  to  the  drawback,  “  I  am  as  good  as  you 
are.”  This  is  so  common,  at  least,  as  almost  to 
be  the  rule,  and  partly  accounts  for  the  rapid  dis¬ 
appearance  of  the  indigenous  “  domestic  ”  from 
the  basements  above  mentioned.  Paleontologists 
will  by-and-by  be  examining  the  floors  of  our 
Kitchens  for  tracks  of  the  extinct  native  spe¬ 
cies  of  serving-man.  The  female  of  the  same 
race  is  fast  dying  out ;  indeed,  the  time  is  not  far 


172 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


distant  when  all  the  varieties  of  young  woman 
will  have  vanished  from  New  England,  as  the 
dodo  has  perished  in  the  Mauritius  The  young 
lady  is  all  that  we  shall  have  left,  and  the  mop 
and  duster  of  the  last  Almira  or  Lo’izy  will  be 
stared  at  by  generations  of  Bridgets  and  Noras 
as  that  famous  head  and  foot  of  the  lost  bird  are 
stared  at  in  the  Ashmolean  Museum. 

-Abel  Stebbins,  the  Doctor’s  man,  took  the  true 
American  view  of  his  difficult  position.  He  sold 
his  time  to  the  Doctor,  and,  having  sold  it,  he  took 
care  to  fulfil  his  half  of  the  bargain.  The  Doctor, 
on  his  part,  treated  him,  not  like  a  gentleman, 
because  one  does  not  order  a  gentleman  to  bring 
up  his  horse  or  run  his  errands,  but  he  treated  him 
like  a  man.  Every  order  was  given  in  courteous 
terms.  His  reasonable  privileges  were  respected 
as  much  as  if  they  had  been  guaranteed  under 
hand  and  seal.  The  Doctor  lent  him  books  from 
his  own  library,  and  gave  him  all  friendly  coun¬ 
sel,  as  if  he  were  a  son  or  a  younger  brother. 

'  Abel  had  Revolutionary  blood  in  his  veins,  and 
though  he  saw  fit  to  “  hire  out,”  he  could  never 
stand  the  word  u  servant,”  or  consider  himself  the 
inferior  one  of  the  two  high  contracting  parties. 
When  he  came  to  live  with  the  Doctor,  he  made 
up  his  mind  he  would  dismiss  the  old  gentleman, 
if  he  did  not  behave  according  to  his  notions  of 
propriety.  But  he  soon  found  that  the  Doctor 
Was  one  of  the  right  sort,  and  so  determined  to 
keep  him,  The  Doctor  soon  found,  on  his  side 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


17S 


that  he  had  a  trustworthy,  intelligent  fellow,  who 
would  be  invaluable  to  him,  if  he  only  let  him 
have  his  own  way  of  doing  what  was  to  be  done. 

The  Doctor’s  hired  man  had  not  the  manners 
of  a  French  valet.  He  was  grave  and  taciturn 
for  the  most  part,  he  never  bowed  and  rarely 
smiled,  but  was  always  at  work  in  the  daytime 
and  always  reading  in  the  evening.  He  was  hos¬ 
tler,  and  did  all  the  housework  that  a  man  could 
properly  do,  would  go  to  the  door  or  “tend  table,” 
bought  the  provisions  for  the  family,  —  in  short, 
did  almost  everything  for  them  but  get  their  cloth¬ 
ing.  There  was  no  office  in  a  perfectly  appointed 
household,  from  that  of  steward  down  to  that  of 
stable-boy,  which  he  did  not  cheerfully  assume. 
His  round  of  work  not  consuming  all  his  energies, 
he  must  needs  cultivate  the  Doctor’s  garden,  which 
he  kept  in  one  perpetual  bloom,  from  the  blowing 
of  the  first  crocus  to  the  fading  of  the  last  dahlia. 

This  garden  was  Abel’s  poem.  Its  half-dozen 
beds  were  so  many  cantos.  Nature  crowded  them 
for  him  with  imagery  such  as  no  Laureate  could 
copy  in  the  cold  mosaic  of  language.  The  rhythm 
pf  alternating  dawn  and  sunset,  the  strophe  and 
antistrophe  still  perceptible  through  all  the  sudden 
shifts  of  our  dithyrambic  seasons  and  echoed  in 
corresponding  floral  harmonies,  made  melody  in 
the  soul  of  Abel,  the  plain  serving-man.  It  soft¬ 
ened  his  whole  otherwise  rigid  aspect.  He  wor¬ 
shipped  God  according  to  the  strict  wav  of  his 
fathers ;  but  a  florist  s  Puritanism  is  always  col- 


174 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


ored  by  the  petals  of  his  flowers  ,  —  and  Nat  are 
never  shows  him  a  black  corolla. 

He  may  or  may  not  figure  again  in  this  narra* 
tive;  but  as  there  must  be  some  who  confound 
the  New-England  lined  man ,  native-born,  with 
the  servant  of  foreign  birth,  and  as  there  is  the 
difference  of  two  continents  and  two  civilizations 
between  them,  it  did  not  seem  fair  to  let  Abel 
bring  round  the  Doctor’s  mare  and  sulky  without 
touching  his  features  in  half-shadow  into  oui 
background. 

The  Doctor’s  mare,  Cassia,  was  so  called  by 
her  master  from  her  cinnamon  color,  cassia  being 
one  of  the  professional  names  for  that  spice  or 
drug.  She  was  of  the  shade  we  call  sorrel,  or, 
as  an  Englishman  would  perhaps  say,  chestnut, 
—  a  genuine  “  Morgan  ”  mare,  with  a  low  fore* 
hand,  as  is  common  in  this  breed,  but  with  strong 
quarters  and  flat  hocks,  well  ribbed  up,  with  a 
good  eye  and  a  pair  of  lively  ears,  —  a  first-rate 
doctor’s  beast,  —  would  stand  until  her  harness 
dropped  off  her  back  at  the  door  of  a  tedious 
case,  and  trot  over  hill  and  dale  thirty  miles  in 
three  hours,  if  there  was  a  child  in  the  next  coun¬ 
ty  with  a  bean  in  its  windpipe  and  the  Doctor 
gave  her  a  hint  of  the  fact.  Cassia  was  not  large, 
hut  she  had  a  good  deal  of  action,  and  was  the 
Doctor’s  show-horse.  There  were  two  other  ani¬ 
mals  in  his  stable  :  Quassia  or  Quashy,  the  black 
horse,  and  Caustic,  the  old  bay,  with  whom  he 
jogged  round  the  village. 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


175 


rt  A  long  ride  to-day  ?”  said  Abel,  as  he  brought 
ap  the  equipage. 

“Just  out  of  the  village,  —  that’s  all.  —  There’s 
a  kink  in  her  mane,  —  pull  it  out,  will  you  ?  ” 

“  Goin’  to  visit  some  of  the  great  folks,”  Abel 
said  to  himself.  “  Wonder  who  it  is.”  —  Then  to 
the  Doctor,  —  “  Anybody  get  sick  at  Sprowles’s  ? 
They  say  Deacon  Soper  had  a  fit,  after  eatin’ 
some  o’  their  frozen  victuals.” 

The  Doctor  smiled.  He  guessed  the  Deacon 
would  do  well  enough.  He  was  only  going  to 
ride  over  to  the  Dudley  mansion-house. 


176 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


i 


CHAPTER  X. 

THE  DOCTOR  CALLS  ON  ELSIE  VENNEH. 

If  that  primitive  physician,  Chiron,  M.  D.,  ap* 
pears  as  a  Centaur,  as  we  look  at  him  through 
the  lapse  of  thirty  centuries,  the  modern  country- 
doctor,  if  he  could  be  seen  about  thirty  miles  off, 
could  not  be  distinguished  from  a  wheel-animal¬ 
cule.  He  inhabits  a  wheel-carriage.  He  thinks 
of  stationary  dwellings  as  Long  Tom  Coffin  did 
of  land  in  general ;  a  house  may  be  well  enough 
for  incidental  purposes,  but  for  a  u  stiddy ”  resi¬ 
dence  give  him  a  “  kerridge.”  If  he  is  classified 
in  the  Linnaean  scale,  he  must  be  set  down  thus : 
Genus  Homo ;  Species  Rotifer  infusorius ,  —  the 
wheel-animal  of  infusions. 

The  Dudley  mansion  was  not  a  mile  from  the 
Doctor’s ;  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  to  think 
of  walking  to  see  any  of  his  patients’  families, 
if  he  had  any  professional  object  in  his  visit. 
Whenever  the  narrow  sulky  turned  in  at  a  gate, 
the  rustic  who  was  digging  potatoes,  or  hoeing 
corn,  or  swishing  through  the  grass  with  his  scythe, 
in  wave-like  crescents,  or  stepping  short  behind  a 
loaded  wheelbarrow,  or  trudging  lazily  by  the  sido 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


177 


of  the  swinging,  loose-throated,  short-legged  oxen 
rocking  along  the  road  as  if  they  had  just  been 
landed  after  a  three-months’  voyage,  —  the  toiling 
native,  whatever  he  was  doing,  stopped  and  looked 
up  at  the  house  the  Doctor  was  visiting. 

u  Somebody  sick  over  there  t’  Haynes’s.  Guess 
th’  old  man’s  ailin’  ag’in.  Winder’s  haaf-way 
open  in  the  chamber,  —  shouldn’  wonder  ’f  he 
was  dead  and  laid  aout.  Docterin’  a’n’t  no  use, 
when  y’  see  th’  winders  open  like  that.  Wahl, 
money  a’n’t  much  to  speak  of  to  th’  old  man 
naow !  He  don’  want  but  tew  cents ,  —  ’n’  old 
Widah  Peake,  she  knows  what  he  wants  them 
for!” 

Or  again,  — 

“  Measles  raound  pooty  thick.  Briggs’s  folks 
buried  two  children  with  ’em  laas’  week.  Th’ 
ol’  Doctor,  he’d  h’  ker’d  ’em  threugh.  Struck  in 
’n’  p’dooced  mo’t’f ’cation,  —  so  they  say.” 

This  is  only  meant  as  a  sample  of  the  kind  of 
way  they  used  to  think  or  talk,  when  the  narrow 
sulky  turned  in  at  the  gate  of  some  house  where 
there  was  a  visit  to  be  made. 

Oh,  that  narrow  sulky!  What  hopes,  what 
fears,  what  comfort,  what  anguish,  what  despair, 
in  the  roll  of  its  coming  or  its  parting  wheels ! 
In  the  spring,  when  the  old  oeople  get  the  coughs 
which  give  them  a  few  shakes  and  their  lives  drop 
in  pieces  like  the  ashes  of  a  burned  thread  which 
have  kept  the  threadlike  shape  until  they  were 
stirred,  —  in  the  hot  summer  noons,  when  the 

12 


VOL,  I 


178 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


strong  man  comes  in  from  the  fields,  like  the  son 
of  the  Shunamite,  crying,  “  My  head,  my  head,” 
—  in  the  dying  autumn  days,  when  youth  and 
maiden  lie  fever-stricken  in  many  a  household, 
still-faced,  dull-eyed,  dark-flushed,  dry -lipped,  low- 
muttering  in  their  daylight  dreams,  their  fingers 
moving  singly  like  those  of  slumbering  harpers, — 
in  the  dead  winter,  when  the  white  plague  of  the 
North  has  caged  its  wasted  victims,  shuddering 
as  they  think  of  the  frozen  soil  which  must  be 
quarried  like  rock  to  receive  them,  if  their  perpet¬ 
ual  convalescence  should  happen  to  be  interfered 
with  by  any  untoward  accident,  —  at  every  sea¬ 
son,  the  narrow  sulky  rolled  round  freighted  with 
unmeasured  burdens  of  joy  and  woe. 

The  Doctor  drove  along  the  southern  foot  of 
The  Mountain.  The  44  Dudley  Mansion  ”  was 
near  the  eastern  edge  of  this  declivity,  where 
it  rose  steepest,  with  baldest  cliffs  and  densest 
patches  of  overhanging  wood.  It  seemed  almost 
too  steep  to  climb,  but  a  practised  eye  could  see 
from  a  distance  the  zigzag  lines  of  the  sheep 
paths  which  scaled  it  like  miniature  Alpine  roads 
A  few  hundred  feet  up  The  Mountain’s  side  was 
a  dark  deep  dell,  unwooded,  save  for  a  few  spin¬ 
dling,  crazy-looking  hackmatacks  or  native  larches, 
with  pallid  green  tufts  sticking  out  fantastically 
all  over  them.  It  shelved  so  deeply,  that,  while 
the  hemlock-tassels  were  swinging  on  the  trees 
around  its  border,  all  would  be  still  at  its  springy 
bottom,  save  that  perhaps  a  single  fern  wouk' 


ELSIE  VEUNER. 


179 


wave  slowly  backward  and  forward  like  a  sabre 
with  a  twist  as  of  a  feathered  oar,  —  and  this 
when  not  a  breath  could  be  felt,  and  every  othei 
stem  and  blade  were  motionless.  There  was  an 
old  story  of  one  having  perished  here  in  the  wii> 
ter  of  ’86,  and  his  body  having  been  found  in  the 
spring,  —  whence  its  common  name  of  “Dead- 
Man’s  Hollow.”  Higher  up  there  were  huge 
cliffs  with  chasms,  and,  it  was  thought,  concealed 
caves,  where  in  old  times  they  said  that  Tories 
lay  hid,  —  some  hinted  not  without  occasional  aid 
and  comfort  from  the  Dudleys  then  living  in  the 
mansion-house.  Still  higher  and  farther  west  lay 
the  accursed  ledge,  —  shunned  by  all,  unless  it 
were  now  and  then  a  daring  youth,  or  a  wander¬ 
ing  naturalist  who  ventured  to  its  edge  in  the 
hope  of  securing  some  infantile  Crotalus  dui'issus , 
who  had  not  yet  cut  his  poison-teeth. 

Long,  long  ago,  in  old  Colonial  times,  the  Hon¬ 
orable  Thomas  Dudley,  Esquire,  a  man  of  note 
and  name  and  great  resources,  allied  by  descenl 
to  the  family  of  “  Tom  Dudley,”  as  the  earl) 
Governor  is  sometimes  irreverently  called  by  our 
most  venerable,  but  still  youthful  antiquary, — 
and  to  the  other  public  Dudleys,  of  course,  —  of 
all  of  whom  he  made  small  account,  as  being 
himself  an  English  gentleman,  with  little  taste  foi 
the  splendors  of  provincial  office, —  early  in  the 
’ast  century,  Thomas  Dudley  had  built  this  man*" 
sion.  For  several  generations  it  had  been  dwelt 
in  by  descendants  of  the  same  name,  but  soon 


180 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


after  the  Revolution  it  passed  by  marriage  into 
the  hands  of  the  Venners,  by  whom  it  had  evei 
6ince  been  held  and  tenanted. 

As  the  Doctor  turned  an  angle  in  the  road,  all 
at  once  the  stately  old  house  rose  before  him.  PtT 
was  a  skilfully  managed  effect,  as  it  well  might 
be,  for  it  was  no  vulgar  English  architect  who  had 
planned  the  mansion  and  arranged  its  position 
and  approach.  The  old  house  rose  before  the 
Doctor,  crowning  a  terraced  garden,  flanked  at  the 
left  by  an  avenue  of  tall  elms.  The  flower-beds 
were  edged  with  box,  which  diffused  around  it  ^ 
that  dreamy  balsamic  odor,  full  of  ante-natal  rem- 
\/  iniscences  of  a  lost  Paradise,  dimly  fragrant  as 
-  might  be  the  bdellium  of  ancient  Havilah,  the 
land  compassed  by  the  river  Pison  that  went  out 
of  Eden.  The  garden  was  somewhat  neglected, 
but  not  in  disgrace,  —  and  in  the  time  of  tulips 
and  hyacinths,  of  roses,  of  “  snowballs,”  of  hon¬ 
eysuckles,  of  lilacs,  of  syringas,  it  was  rich  with 
blossoms. 

From  the  front-windows  of  the  mansion  the 
eye  reached  a  far  blue  mountain-summit,  —  n© 
rounded  heap,  such  as  often  shuts  in  a  village 
landscape,  but  a  sharp  peak,  clean-angled  as  As 
cutney  from  the  Dartmouth  green.  A  wide  gap 
through  miles  of  woods  had  opened  this  distant 
view,  and  showed  more,  perhaps,  than  all  the  la¬ 
bors  of  the  architect  and  the  landscape-gardenei 
the  large  style  of  the  early  Dudleys. 

The  great  stone-chimney  of  the  mansion-houst 


ELSIE  YEN  NEK. 


181 


was  the  centre  from  which  all  the  artificial  feat¬ 
ures  of  the  scene  appeared  to  flow.  The  roofs, 
the  gables,  the  dormer-windows,  the  porches,  the 
clustered  offices  in  the  rear,  all  seemed  to  crowd 
about  the  great  chimney.  To  this  central  pillar 
the  paths  all  converged.  The  single  poplar  be¬ 
hind  the  house,  —  Nature  is  jealous  of  proud 
chimneys,  and  always  loves  to  put  a  poplar  near 
one,  so  that  it  may  fling  a  leaf  or  two  down  its 
black  throat  every  autumn,  —  the  one  tall  poplar 
behind  the  house  seemed  to  nod  and  whisper  to 
the  grave  square  column,  the  elms  to  sway  their 
branches  towards  it.  And  when  the  blue  smoke 
rose  from  its  summit,  it  seemed  to  be  wafted 
away  to  join  the  azure  haze  which  hung  around 
the  peak  in  the  far  distance,  so  that  both  should 
bathe  in  a  common  atmosphere. 

Behind  the  house  were  clumps  of  lilacs  with  a 
century’s  growth  upon  them,  and  looking  more 
Like  trees  than  like  shrubs.  Shaded  by  a  group 
of  these  was  the  ancient  well,  of  huge  circuit, 
and  with  a  low  arch  opening  out  of  its  wall 
about  ten  feet  below  the  surface,  —  whether  the 
door  of  a  crypt  for  the  concealment  of  treasure, 
or  of  a  subterranean  passage,  or  merely  of  a  vauli 
for  keeping  provisions  cool  in  hot  weather,  opin¬ 
ions  differed. 

On  looking  at  the  house,  it  was  plain  that  il 
Was  built  with  Old-World  notions  of  strength 
and  durability,  and,  so  far  as  might  be,  with 
JUd- World  materials.  The  hinges  of  the  door 


182 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


stretched  out  like  arms,  instead  of  like  hands,  as 
vve  make  them.  The  bolts  were  massive  enough 
for  a  donjon-keep.  The  small  window-panes 
Were  actually  inclosed  in  the  wood  of  the  sashes 
instead  of  being  stuck  to  them  with  putty,  as  in 
our  modern  windows.  The  broad  staircase  was 
of  easy  ascent,  and  was  guarded  by  quaintly 
turned  and  twisted  balusters.  The  ceilings  of 
the  two  rooms  of  state  were  moulded  with  me¬ 
dallion-portraits  and  rustic  figures,  such  as  may 
have  been  seen  by  many  readers  in  the  famous 
old  Philipse  house, — Washington’s  headquarters, 

—  in  the  town  of  Yonkers.  The  fire-places,  wor¬ 
thy  of  the  wide-throated  central  chimney,  were 
bordered  by  pictured  tiles,  some  of  them  with 
Scripture  stories,  some  with  Watteau-like  figures, 

—  tall  damsels  in  slim  waists  and  with  spread 
enough  of  skirt  for  a  modern  ballroom,  with  bow¬ 
ing,  reclining,  or  musical  swains  of  what  every¬ 
body  calls  the  u  conventional  ”  sort,  —  that  is,  the 
swain  adapted  to  genteel  society  rather  than  to  a 
literal  sheep-compelling  existence. 

The  house  was  furnished,  soon  after  it  was  com¬ 
pleted,  with  many  heavy  articles  made  in  Lon« 
Ion  from  a  rare  wood  just  then  come  into  fash¬ 
ion,  not  so  rare  now,  and  commonly  known  as 
mahogany.  Time  had  turned  it  very  dark,  and 
the  stately  bedsteads  and  tall  cabinets  and  claw- 
looted  chairs  and  tables  were  in  keeping  with  the 
sober  dignity  of  the  ancient  mansion.  The  old 

hangings  ”  were  yet  preserved  in  the  chambers 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


183 


faded,  but  still  showing  their  rich  patterns, — - 
properly  entitled  to  their  name,  for  they  were 
literally  hung  upon  flat  wooden  frames  like  trel¬ 
lis-work,  which  again  were  secured  to  the  naked 
partitions. 

There  were  portraits  of  different  date  on  the 
walls  of  the  various  apartments,  old  painted 
coats-of-arms,  bevel-edged  mirrors,  and  in  one 
sleeping-room  a  glass  case  of  wax-work  flowers 
and  spangly  symbols,  with  a  legend  signifying 
that  E.  M.  (supposed  to  be  Elizabeth  Mascarene) 
wished  not  to  be  "  forgot  ” 

“  When  I  am  dead  and  lay’d  in  dust 
And  all  my  bones  are” - 

Poor  E.  M. !  Poor  everybody  that  sighs  for 
earthly  remembrance  in  a  planet  with  a  core  of  “K 
fire  and  a  crust  of  fossils  ! 

Such  was  the  Dudley  mansion-house,  —  for  it 
kept  its  ancient  name  in  spite  of  the  change  in  the 
line  of  descent.  Its  spacious  apartments  looked 
dreary  and  desolate ;  for  here  Dudley  Vernier 
and  his  daughter  dwelt  by  themselves,  with  such 
servants  only  as  their  quiet  mode  of  life  required 
He  almost  lived  in  his  library,  the  western  room 
on  the  ground-floor.  Its  window  looked  upon  a 
6mall  plat  of  green,  in  the  midst  of  which  was  a 
single  grave  marked  by  a  plain  marble  slab.  Ex-  / 
cept  this  room,  and  the  chamoer  where  he  slept, 
and  the  servants’  wing,  the  rest  of  the  house  was 
all  Elsie’s.  She  was  always  a  restless,  wandering 


184 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


child  from  her  early  years,  and  would  have  her 
little  bed  moved  from  one  chamber  to  another,— 
flitting  round  as  the  fancy  took  her.  Sometime! 
she  would  drag  a  mat  and  a  pillow  into  one  oi 
the  great  empty  rooms,  and,  wrapping  herself  in 
a  shawl,  coil  up  and  go  to  sleep  in  a  corner 
Nothing  frightened  her ;  the  “  haunted  ”  chamber, 
with  the  torn  hangings  that  flapped  like  wings 
when  there  was  air  stirring,  was  one  of  her  fa¬ 
vorite  retreats. 

She  had  been  a  very  hard  creature  to  manage. 
Her  father  could  influence,  but  not  govern  her 
Old  Sophy,  born  of  a  slave  mother  in  the  house, 
could  do  more  with  her  than  anybody,  knowing 
her  by  long  instinctive  study.  The  other  servants 
were  afraid  of  her.  Her  father  had  sent  for  gov¬ 
ernesses,  but  none  of  them  ever  stayed  long.  She 
made  them  nervous ;  one  of  them  had  a  strange 
fit  of  sickness ;  not  one  of  them  ever  came  back 
to  the  house  to  see  her.  A  young  Spanish  wom¬ 
an  who  taught  her  dancing  succeeded  best  with 
her,  for  she  had  a  passion  for  that  exercise,  and 
had  mastered  some  of  the  most  difficult  dances. 

Long  before  this  period,  she  had  manifested 
some  most  extraordinary  singularities  of  taste  or 
instinct.  The  extreme  sensitiveness  of  her  father 
on  this  point  prevented  any  allusion  to  them ;  but 
there  were  stories  floating  round,  some  of  them 
even  getting  into  the  papers,  —  without  her  name, 
of  course, — which  were  of  a  kind  to  excite  intense 
curiosity,  if  not  more  anxious  feelings.  This  tiling 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


183 


was  certain,  that  at  the  age  of  twelve  she  wa3 
missed  one  night,  and  was  found  sleeping  in  the 
open  air  under  a  tree,  like  a  wild  creature.  Very  * 
often  she  would  wander  off  by  day,  always  with¬ 
out  a  companion,  bringing  home  with  her  a  nest) 
a  flower,  or  even  a  more  questionable  trophy  of 
her  ramble,  such  as  showed  that  there  was  no 
place  where  she  was  afraid  to  venture.  Once  in 
a  while  she  had  stayed  out  over  night,  in  which  ^ 
case  the  alarm  was  spread,  and  men  went  in 
search  of  her,  but  never  successfully,  —  so  that 
some  said  she  hid  herself  in  trees,  and  others  that 
she  had  found  one  of  the  old  Tory  caves. 

Some,  of  course,  said  she  was  a  crazy  girl,  and 
ought  to  be  sent  to  an  Asylum.  But  old  Dr.  \ J  -/-K 
Kittredge  had  shaken  his  head,  and  told  them  to 
bear  with  her,  and  let  her  have  her  way  as  much 
as  they  could,  but  watch  her,  as  far  as  possible, 
without  making  her  suspicious  of  them.  He  vis¬ 
ited  her  now  and  then,  under  the  pretext  of  see¬ 
ing  her  father  on  business,  or  of  only  making  a 
friendly  call. 

The  Doctor  fastened  his  horse  outside  the  gate, 
and  walked  up  the  garden-alley.  He  stopped 
suddenly  with  a  start.  A  strange  sound  had 
jarred  upon  his  ear.  It  was  a  sharp  prolonged 
*attle,  continuous,  but  rising  and  falling  as  if  in 
rhythmical  cadence.  He  moved  softly  towards 
the  open  window  from  which  the  sound  seemed 
to  proceed. 


186 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


\ 


<’ 


X 


Elsie  was  alone  in  the  room,  dancing  one  of 
those  wild  Moorish  fandangos,  such  as  a  matador 
hot  from  the  Plaza  de  Toros  of  Seville  or  Madrid 
might  love  to  lie  and  gaze  at.  She  was  a  fig¬ 
ure  to  look  upon  in  silence.  The  dancing  frenzy 
must  have  seized  upon  her  while  she  was  dress¬ 
ing;  for  she  was  in  her  bodice,  bare-armed,  her 
hair  floating  unbound  far  below  the  waist  of  hei 
barred  or  banded  skirt.  She  had  caught  up  her 
castanets,  and  rattled  them  as  she  danced  with  a 
kind  of  passionate  fierceness,  her  lithe  body  un¬ 
dulating  with  flexuous  grace,  her  diamond  eyes 
glittering,  her  round  arms  wreathing  and  unwind¬ 
ing,  alive  and  vibrant  to  the  tips  of  the  slender 
fingers.  Some  passion  seemed  to  exhaust  itself 
in  this  dancing  paroxysm ;  for  all  at  once  she 
reeled  from  the  middle  of  the  floor,  and  flung 
herself,  as  it  were  in  a  careless  coil,  upon  a  great 
tiger’s-skin  which  was  spread  out  in  one  corner 
of  the  apartment. 

The  old  Doctor  stood  motionless,  looking  at 
her  as  she  lay  panting  on  the  tawny,  black-lined 
robe  of  the  dead  monster,  which  stretched  out 
beneath  her,  its  rude  flattened  outline  recalling 
/  the  Terror  of  the  Jungle  as  he  crouched  for  his 
l  fatal  spring.  In  a  few  moments  her  head  drooped 
upon  her  arm,  and  her  glittering  eyes  closed, — 
she  was  sleeping.  He  stood  looking  at  her 
still,  steadily,  thoughtfully,  tenderly.  Presently 
he  lifted  his  hand  to  his  forehead,  as  if  recall 
lug  some  fading  remembrance  of  other  years. 


RLSIft  VEITNM.. 


16/ 


w  Poor  Catalina!” 

This  was  all  he  said.  He  shook  his  head, — 
implying  that  his  visit  would  be  in  vain  to-day, 
—-returned  to  his  sulky,  and  rode  away,  as  if  ia 

a  dream. 


FTS’F  YEN  WEB 


isa 

$ 


CHAPTER  XI. 
cousin  Richard’s  visit. 

The  Doctor  was  roused  from  his  reverie  by  the 
clatter  of  approaching  hoofs.  He  looked  forward 
and  saw  a  young  fellow  galloping  rapidly  towards 
him. 

A  common  New-England  rider  with  his  toes 
turned  out,  his  elbows  jerking  and  the  daylight 
showing  under  him  at  every  step,  bestriding  a 
cantering  beast  of  the  plebeian  breed,  thick  at 
every  point  where  he  should  be  thin,  and  thin  at 
every  point  where  he  should  be  thick,  is  not  one 
of  those  noble  objects  that  bewitch  the  world. 
The  best  horsemen  outside  of  the  cities  are  the 
unshod  country -boys,  who  ride  “  bare-back,”  with 
only  a  halter  round  the  horse’s  neck,  digging  their 
brown  heels  into  his  ribs,  and  slanting  over  back¬ 
wards,  but  sticking  on  like  leeches,  and  taking  the 
hardest  trot  as  if  they  loved  it.  This  was  a  dif¬ 
ferent  sight  on  which  the  Doctor  was  looking 
The  streaming  mane  and  tail  of  the  unshorn, 
savage-looking,  black  horse,  the  dashing  grace 
with  which  the  young  fellow  in  the  shadowy 
breroy  and  armed  with  the  huge  spurs,  sat  in  hi* 


ELSIE  VEXNEE. 


189 

high-peaked  saddle,  could  belong  only  to  the 
mustang  of  the  Pampas  and  his  master.  This 
bold  rider  was  a  young  man  whose  sudden  appari¬ 
tion  in  the  quiet  inland  town  had  reminded  some 
of  the  good  people  of  a  bright,  curly-haired  boy  x 
they  had  known  some  eight  or  ten  years  before  a» 
little  Dick  Yenner. 

This  boy  had  passed  several  of  his  early  years 
at  the  Dudley  mansion,  the  playmate  of  Elsie, 
being  her  cousin,  two  or  three  years  older  than 
herself,  the  son  of  Captain  Richard  Venner,  a 
South  American  trader,  who,  as  he  changed  his 
residence  often,  was  glad  to  leave  the  boy  in  his 
brother’s  charge.  The  Captain’s  wife,  this  boy’s 
mother,  was  a  lady  of  Buenos  Ayres,  of  Spanish 
descent,  and  had  died  while  the  child  was  in  his 
cradle.  These  two  motherless  children  were  as 
strange  a  pair  as  one  roof  could  well  cover.  Both 
handsome,  wild,  impetuous,  unmanageable,  they 
played  and  fought  together  like  two  young  leop¬ 
ards,  beautiful,  but  dangerous,  their  lawless  in¬ 
stincts  showing  through  all  their  graceful  move¬ 
ments. 

The  boy  was  little  else  than  a  young  Gaucho  V- 
when  he  first  came  to  Rockland ;  for  he  had 
(earned  to  ride  almost  as  soon  as  to  walk,  am’ 
could  jump  on  his  pony  and  trip  up  a  runaway 
pig  with  the  bolas  or  noose  him  with  his  minia* 
ture  lasso  at  an  ase  when  some  citv-children 
would  hardly  be  trusted  out  of  sight  of  a  nursery¬ 
maid.  It  makes  men  imperious  to  sit  a  horse 


190 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


no  man  governs  his  fellows  so  well  as  from  tb»» 
living  throne.  And  so,  from  Marcus  Aurelius  is 
<  Roman  bronze,  down  to  the  “  man  on  horseback  ” 
in  General  Cushing’s  prophetic  speech,  the  saddle 
has  always  been  the  true  seat  of  empire.  The 
absolute  tyranny  of  the  human  will  over  a  noble 
and  powerful  beast  develops  the  instinct  of  per¬ 
sonal  prevalence  and  dominion ;  so  that  horse- 
subduer  and  hero  were  almost  synonymous  in 
simpler  times,  and  are  closely  related  still.  An 
ancestry  of  wild  riders  naturally  enough  be¬ 
queaths  also  those  other  tendencies  which  we 
see  in  the  Tartars,  the  Cossacks,  and  our  own 
Indian  Centaurs,  —  and  as  well,  perhaps,  in  the 
old-fashioned  fox-hunting  squire  as  in  any  of 
these.  Sharp  alternations  of  violent  action  and 
self-indulgent  repose ;  a  hard  run,  and  a  long 
revel  after  it :  this  is  what  over-much  horse  tends 
to  animalize  a  man  into.  Such  antecedents  may 
have  helped  to  make  little  Dick  Yenner  a  self- 
willed,  capricious  boy,  and  a  rough  playmate  for 
Elsie. 

Elsie  was  the  wilder  of  the  two.  Old  Sophy, 
who  used  to  watch  them  with  those  quick,  ani¬ 
mal-looking  eyes  of  hers, — she  was  said  to  be 
the  granddaughter  of  ji_cannibal  chief,  and  in¬ 
herited  the  keen  senses  belonging  to  all  creatures 
X  winch  are  hunted  as  game,  —  Old  Sophy,  who 
watched  them  in  their  play  and  their  quarrels,  al¬ 
ways  seemed  to  be  more  afraidjor  the  boy  than 
the  girl.  “  Massa  Dick !  Massa  Dick !  don’  you 


ELSIE  VENKER. 


191 


be  too  rough  wi’  dat  gal !  She  scratch  you  las’ 
week,  ’n’  some  day  she  bite  you^’n’  if  she  bite  you, 
Massa  Dick !  ”  Old  Sophy  nodded  her  head  omi¬ 
nously,  as  if  she  could  say  a  great  deal  more ; 
while,  in  grateful  acknowledgment  of  her  cau¬ 
tion,  Master  Dick  put  his  two  little  fingers  in  the 
angles  of  his  mouth,  and  his  forefingers  on  his 
lower  eyelids,  drawing  upon  these  features  until 
his  expression  reminded  her  of  something  she 
vaguely  recollected  in  her  infancy,  —  the  face  of 
a  favorite  deity  executed  in  wood  by  an  African 
artist  for  her  grandfather,  brought  over  by  her 
mother,  and  burned  when  she  became  a  Christian 
These  two  wild  children  had  much  in  common. 
They  loved  to  ramble  together,  to  build  huts,  to 
climb  trees  for  nests,  to  ride  the  colts,  to  dance,  to 
race,  and  to  play  at  boys’  rude  games  as  if  both 
were  boys.  But  wherever  two  natures  have  a 
great  deal  in  common,  the  conditions  of  a  first- 
rate  quarrel  are  furnished  ready-made.  Relations 
are  very  apt  to  hate  each  other  just  because  they 
are  too  much  alike.  It  is  so  frightful  to  be  in  an 
atmosphere  of  family  idiosyncrasies  ;  to  see  all  the 
hereditary  uncomeliness  or  infirmity  of  body,  all 
the  defects  of  speech,  all  the  failings  of  temper, 
intensified  by  concentration,  so  that  every  fault  of 
our  own  finds  itself  multiplied  by  reflections,  like 
our  images  in  a  saloon  lined  with  mirrors '  Jfe 
jture  knows  what  she  is  about.  The  centrifugal 
principle  which  grows  out  of  the  antipathy  of  like 
to  like  is  only  the  repetition  in  character  of  the 


192 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


•fv 


(  arrangement  we  see  expressed  materially  in  cer¬ 
tain  seed-capsules,  which  burst  and  throw  the 
Beed  to  all  points  of  the  compass.  A  house  is  a 
large  pod  with  a  human  germ  or  two  in  each  of 
its  cells  or  chambers ;  it  opens  by  dehiscence  of 
the  front-door  by-and-by,  and  projects  one  of  its 
germs  to  Kansas,  another  to  San  Francisco,  an¬ 
other  to  Chicago,  and  so  on ;  and  this  that  Smith 
may  not  be  Smithed  to  death  and  Brown  may 
not  be  Browned  into  a  mad-house,  but  mix  in 
with  the  world  again  and  struggle  back  to  average 
humanity. 

Elsie’s  father,  whose  fault  was  to  indulge  her  in 
everything,  found  that  it  would  never  do  to  let 
these  children  grow  up  together.  They  would 
either  love  each  other  as  they  got  older,  and  pair 
like  wild  creatures,  or  take  some  fierce  antipathy, 
which  might  end  nobody  could  tell  where.  It  was 
not  safe  to  try.  The  boy  must  be  sent  away.  A 
sharper  quarrel  than  common  decided  this  point. 
Master  Dick  forgot  Old  Sophy’s  caution,  and 
rexed  the  girl  into  a  paroxysm  of  wrath,  in  which 
she  sprang  at  him  and  bit  his  arm.  Perhaps  they 
made  too  much  of  it;  for  they  sent  for  the  old 
Doctor,  who  came  at  once  when  he  heard  what 
had  happened.  He  had  a  good  deal  to  say  about 
the  danger  there  was  from  the  teeth  of  animals  or 
human  beings  when  enraged;  and  as  he  empha¬ 
sized  his  remarks  by  the  application  of  a  penci. 
of  lunar  caustic  to  each  of  the  marks  left  by  the 
sharp  white  teeth,  they  were  like  to  be  remem 
b’ered  by  at  least  one  of  his  hearers. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


19S 


So  Master  Dick  went  off  on  his  travels,  which 
ed  him  into  strange  places  and  stranger  company. 
Elsie  was  half  pleased  and  half  sorry  to  have  him 
go  ;  the  children  had  a  kind  of  mingled  liking 
and  hate  for  each  other,  just  such  as  is  very  com¬ 
mon  among  relations.  Whether  the  girl  had  most 
satisfaction  in  the  plays  they  shared,  or  in  teasing 
him,  or  taking  her  small  revenge  upon  him  for 
teasing  her,  it  would  have  been  hard  to  say.  At 
any  rate,  she  was  lonely  without  him.  She  had 
more  fondness  for  the  old  black  woman  than  any¬ 
body  ;  but  Sophy  could  not  follow  her  far  beyond 
her  own  old  rocking-chair.  As  for  her  father,  she  , 
had  made  him  a  Iraki  of  her,  not  for  his  sake,  but 
for  her  own.  Sometimes  she  would  seem  to  be 
fond  of  him,  and  the  parent’s  heart  would  yearn 
within  him  as  she  twined  her  supple  arms  about 
him  ;  and  then  some  look  she  gave  him,  some 
half-articulated  expression,  would  turn  his  cheek 
pale  and  almost  make  him  shiver,  and  he  would  K 
say  kindly,  u  Now  go,  Elsie,  dear,”  and  smile  upon 
her  as  she  went,  and  close  and  lock  the  door  softly 
after  her.  Then  his  forehead  would  knot  and  fur¬ 
row  itself,  and  the  drops  of  anguish  stand  thick 
upon  it.  He  would  go  to  the  western  window  of 
hia  study  and  look  at  the  solitary  mound  with  the 
marble  slab  for  its  head-stone.  After  his  grief 
had  had  its  way,  he  would  kneel  down  and  pray 
for  his  child  as  one  who  has  no  hope  save  in  that 
special  grace  which  can  bring  the  most  rebellious 
spirit  into  sweet  subjection.  All  this  might  seem 


fW  tout' 


rp-o 1 


VOL.  I 


12 


194 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


.ike  weakness  in  a  parent  having  the  charge  of 
one  sole  daughter  of  his  house  and  heart ;  but  he 
had  tried  authority  and  tenderness  by  turns  so 
long  without  any  good  effect,  that  he  had  become 
sole  perplexed,  and,  surrounding  her  with  cautious 
watchfulness  as  he  best  might,  left  her  in  the  main 
to  her  own  guidance  and  the  merciful  influences 
which  Heaven  might  send  down  to  direct  her 
footsteps. 

Meantime  the  boy  grew  up  to  youth  and  early 
manhood  through  a  strange  succession  of  adven¬ 
tures.  He  had  been  at  school  at  Buenos  Ayres, 
—  had  quarrelled  with  his  mother’s  relatives, — 
had  run  off  to  the  Pampas,  and  lived  with  the 
Gauchos ,  —  had  made  friends  with  the  Indians, 
and  ridden  with  them,  it  was  rumored,  in  some 
of  their  savage  forays,  —  had  returned  and  made 
up  his  quarrel,  —  had  got  money  by  inheritance 
or  otherwise,  —  had  troubled  the  peace  of  certain 
magistrates,  —  had  found  it  convenient  to  leave 
the  City  of  Wholesome  Breezes  for  a  time,  and 
had  galloped  off  on  a  fast  horse  of  his,  (so  it  was 
said),  with  some  officers  riding  after  him,  who 
took  good  care  (but  this  was  only  the  popular 
story)  not  to  catch  him.  A  few  days  after  this 
he  was  taking  his  ice  on  the  Alameda  of  Men¬ 
doza,  and  a  week  or  two  later  sailed  from  Val¬ 
paraiso  for  New  York,  carrying  with  him  the 
horse  with  which  he  had  scampered  over  the 
Plains,  a  trunk  or  two  with  his  newly  purchased 
outfit  of  clothing  and  other  conveniences,  anc 


ELSIE  VENNER.  195 

a  belt  heavy  with  gold  and  with  a  few  Brazilian 
diamonds  sewed  in  it,  enough  in  value  to  serve  X 
him  for  a  long  journey. 

Dick  Venner  had  seen  life  enough  to  wear  out 
the  earlier  sensibilities  of  adolescence.  He  was 
tired  of  worshipping  or  tyrannizing  over  the  bis- 
tred  or  umbered  beauties  of  mingled  blood  amonp 
whom  he  had  been  living.  Even  that  piquant 
exhibition  which  the  Bio  de  Mendoza  presents 
to  the  amateur  of  breathing  sculpture  failed  to 
interest  him.  He  was  thinking  of  a  far-off  vil¬ 
lage  on  the  other  side  of  the  equator,  and  of  the 
wild  girl  with  whom  he  used  to  play  and  quarrel, 
a  creature  of  a  different  race  from  these  degener¬ 
ate  mongrels. 

“  A  game  little  devil  she  was,  sure  enough !  ” 

—  and  as  Dick  spoke,  he  bared  his  wrist  to  look 
for  the  marks  she  had  left  on  it :  two  small  white 
scars,  where  the  two,  small  sharp  upper  teeth  had 
struck  when  she  flashed  at  him  with  her  eyes 
sparkling  as  bright  as  those  glittering  stones 
sewed  up  in  the  belt  he  wore.  —  “  That’s  a  filly 
worth  noosing !  ”  said  Dick  to  himself,  as  he 
looked  in  admiration  at  the  sign  of  her  spirit 
and  passion.  11 1  wonder  if  she  will  bite  at 
*  eighteen  as  she  did  at  eight!  She  shall  have 
$  chance  to  try,  at  any  rate !  ” 

Such  was  the  self-sacrificing  disposition  with 
tv^ich  Bichard  Venner,  Esq.,  a  passenger  by  th£. 

^  Condor  from  Valparaiso,  set  foot  upon  his  native 
shore,  and  turned  his  face  in  the  direction  of 


196 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


Rockland,  The  Mountain  and  the  mansion* 
house.  He  had  heard  something,  from  time  tc 
time,  of  his  New-England  relatives,  and  knew 
that  they  were  living  together  as  he  left  them 
And  so  he  heralded  himself  to  “  My  dear  Uncle  ’ 
by  a  letter  signed  “  Your  loving  nephew,  Richard 
Venner,”  in  which  letter  he  told  a  very  frank 
etory  of  travel  and  mercantile  adventure,  ex¬ 
pressed  much  gratitude  for  the  excellent  coun¬ 
sel  and  example  which  had  helped  to  form  his 
character  and  preserve  him  in  the  midst  of 
temptation,  inquired  affectionately  after  his  un¬ 
cle’s  health,  was  much  interested  to  know  wheth¬ 
er  his  lively  cousin  who  used  to  be  his  playmate 
had  grown  up  as  handsome  as  she  promised  to 
be,  and  announced  his  intention  of  paying  his 
respects  to  them  both  at  Rockland.  Not  long 
after  this  came  the  trunks  marked  R.  Y.  which 
he  had  sent  before  him,  forerunners  of  his  ad¬ 
vent  :  he  was  not  going  to  wait  for  a  reply  or 
an  invitation. 

What  a  sound  that  is,  —  the  banging  down 
of  the  preliminary  trunk,  without  its  claimant 
to  give  it  the  life  which  is  borrowed  by  all  per¬ 
sonal  appendages,  so  long  as  the  owner’s  hand 
or  eye  is  on  them !  If  it  announce  the  coming 
01  one  loved  and  longed  for,  how  we  delight  to 
look  at  it,  to  sit  down  on  it,  to  caress  it  in  ouj 
Fancies,  as  a  lone  exile  walking  out  on  a  windy 
pier  yearns  towards  the  merchantman  lying  along 
side,  with  the  colors  of  his  own  native  land  at  ho 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


197 


peak,  and  the  name  of  the  port  he  sailed  from 
long  ago  upon  her  stem  !  But  if  it  tell  the  near 
approach  of  the  undesired,  inevitable  guest,  what 
sound  short  of  the  muffled  noises  made  by  the 
undertakers  as  they  turn  the  corners  in  the  dim- 
lighted  house,  with  low  shuffle  of  feet  and  whia* 
pered  cautions,  carries  such  a  sense  of  knocking- 
kneed  collapse  with  it  as  the  thumping  down 
in  the  front  entry  of  the  heavy  portmanteau, 
rammed  with  the  changes  of  uncounted  coming 
weeks  ? 

Whether  the  R.  V.  portmanteaus  brought  one 
or  the  other  of  these  emotions  to  the  tenants  of 
the  Dudley  mansion,  it  might  not  be  easy  to 
settle.  Elsie  professed  to  be  pleased  with  the 
thought  of  having  an  adventurous  young  stran¬ 
ger,  with  stories  to  tell,  an  inmate  of  their  quiet, 
not  to  say  dull,  family.  Under  almost  any  other 
circumstances,  her  father  would  have  been  un¬ 
willing  to  take  a  young  fellow  of  whom  he  knew 
so  little  under  his  roof ;  but  this  was  his  nephew, 
and  anything  that  seemed  like  to  amuse  or  please 
Elsie  was  agreeable  to  him.  He  had  grown  al¬ 
most  desperate,  and  felt  as  if  any  change  in  the 
•current  of  her  life  and  feelings  might  save  her 
jom  some  strange  paroxysm  of  dangerous  men¬ 
tal  exaltation  or  sullen  perversion_  of  disposition, 
from  which  some  fearful  calamity  might  come 
to  herself  or  others. 

Dick  had  been  several  weeks  at  the  Dudley 
mansion.  A  few  days  before,  he  had  made  a 


198 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


sudden  dash  for  the  nearest  large  city,  —  and 
when  the  Doctor  met  him,  he  was  just  return 
ing  from  his  visit. 

It  had  been  a  curious  meeting  between  the 
two  young  persons,  who  had  parted  so  young 
and  after  such  strange  relations  with  each  other. 
When  Dick  first  presented  himself  at  the  man¬ 
sion,  not  one  in  the  house  would  have  known 
him  for  the  boy  who  had  left  them  all  so  sud¬ 
denly  years  ago.  He  was  so  dark,  partly  from 
his  descent,  partly  from  long  habits  of  exposure, 
that  Elsie  looked  almost  fair  beside  him.  He 
had  something  of  the  family  beauty  which  be¬ 
longed  to  his  cousin,  but  his  eye  had  a  fierce 
passion  in  it,  very  unlike  the  cold  glitter  of 
Elsie’s.  Like  many  people  of  strong  and  im¬ 
perious  temper,  he  was  soft-voiced  and  very 
gentle  in  his  address,  when  he  had  no  special 
reason  for  being  otherwise.  He  soon  found  rea¬ 
sons  enough  to  be  as  amiable  as  he  could  force 
himself  to  be  with  his  uncle  and  his  cousin. 
Elsie  was  to  his  fancy.  She  had  a  strange  at¬ 
traction  for  him,  quite  unlike  anything  he  had 
ever  known  in  other  women.  There  was  some¬ 
thing,  too,  in  early  associations  :  when  those  who 
parted  as  children  meet  as  man  and  woman,  there 
is  always  a  renewal  of  that  early  experience 
Which  followed  the  taste  of  the  forbidden  fruit 
—  a  natural  blush  of  consciousness,  not  without 
vts  charm. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


199 


Nothing  could  be  more  becoming  than  the  be¬ 
havior  of  “  Richard  Venner,  Esquire,  the  guest  of 
Dudley  Venner,  Esquire,  at  his  noble  mansion,” 
as  he  was  announced  in  the  Court  column  of  the 
u  Rockland  Weekly  Universe.”  He  was  pleased 
to  find  himself  treated  with  kindness  and  attem 
tion  as  a  relative.  He  made  himself  very  agreea- 
ble  by  abundant  details  concerning  the  religious, 
political,  social,  commercial,  and  educational 
progress  of  the  South  American  cities  and 
states.  He  was  himself  much  interested  in 
everything  that  was  going  on  about  the  Dudley 
mansion,  walked  all  over  it,  noticed  its  valuable 
wood-lots  with  special  approbation,  was  delighted 
with  the  grand  old  house  and  its  furniture,  and 
would  not  be  easy  until  he  had  seen  all  the 
family  silver  and  heard  its  history.  In  return, 
he  had  much  to  tell  of  his  father,  now  dead, — 
the  only  one  of  the  Venners,  beside  themselves, 
in  whose  fate  his  uncle  was  interested.  With 
Elsie,  he  was  subdued  and  almost  tender  in  his 
manner ;  with  the  few  visitors  whom  they  saw, 
6hy  and  silent,  —  perhaps  a  little  watchful,  if  any 
young  man  happened  to  be  among  them. 

Young  fellows  placed  on  their  good  behavior 
are  apt  to  get  restless  and  nervous,  all  ready 
to  fly  off  into  some  mischief  or  other.  Dick 
Venner  had  his  half-tamed  horse  with  him  to 
Work  off  his  suppressed  life  with.  When  the 
Bavage  passion  of  his  young  blood  came  over 
aim,  he  would  fetch  out  the  mustang,  screaming 


goo 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


# 


^  fntM 


W 


and  kicking  as  these  amiable  beasts  are  wont  to 
do,  strap  the  Spanish  saddle  tight  to  his  back, 
vault  into  it,  and,  after  getting  away  from  the 
village,  strike  the  long  spurs  into  his  sides  and 
whirl  away  in  a  wild  gallop,  until  the  black  horso 
was  flecked  with  white  foam,  and  the  cruel  steel 
points  were  red  with  his  blood.  When  horse 
and  rider  were  alike  tired,  he  would  fling  the 
bridle  on  his  neck  and  saunter  homeward,  al¬ 
ways  contriving  to  get  to  the  stable  in  a  quiet 
way,  and  coming  into  the  house  as  calm  as 
a  bishop  after  a  sober  trot  on  his  steady-going 
cob. 

After  a  few  weeks  of  this  kind  of  life,  he  began 
to  want  some  more  fierce  excitement.  He  had 
tried  making  downright  love  to  Elsie,  with  no 
great  success  as  yet,  in  his  own  opinion.  The 
girl  was  capricious  in  her  treatment  of  him,  some¬ 
times  scowling  and  repellent,  sometimes  familiar, 
very  often,  as  she  used  to  be  of  old,  teasing  and 
malicious.  All  this,  perhaps,  made  her  more  in¬ 
teresting  to  a  young  man  who  was  tired  of  easy 
conquests.  There  was  a  strange  fascination  in 
her  eyes,  too,  which  at  times  was  quite  irresisti¬ 
ble,  so  that  lie  would  feel  himself  drawn  to  hei 
by  a  power  which  seemed  to  take  away  his  wil 
Cor  the  moment.  It  may  have  been  nothing  but 
the  common  charm  of  bright  eyes ;  but  he  had 
never  before  experienced  the  same  kind  qf  at¬ 
traction. 

Perhaps  she  was  not  so  very  different  frorr 


i 


what  she  had  been  as  a  child,  after  alb  At  am? 

7  y 

rate,  so  it  seemed  to  Dick  Yenner,  who,  as  wap 
said  before,  had  tried  making  love  to  her.  They 
were  sitting  alone  in  the  study  one  day;  Elsie 
had  round  her  neck  that  somewhat  peculiar  orna- 
ment,  the  golden  torque ,  which  she  had  worn  to  K 
the  great  party.  Youth  is  adventurous  and  very 
curious  about  necklaces,  brooches,  chains,  and 
other  such  adornments,  so  long  as  they  are  worn 
by  young  persons  of  the  female  sex.  Dick  was 
seized  with  a  great  passion  for  examining  this 
curious  chain,  and,  after  some  preliminary  ques¬ 
tions,  was  rash  enough  to  lean  towards  her  and 
put  out  his  hand  toward  the  neck  that  lay  in  the 
golden  coil.  She  threw  her  head  back,  her  eyes 
narrowing  and  her  forehead  drawing  down  so  $» 
that  Dick  thought  herhead  actually  flattened 
itself.  He  started  involuntarily ;  for  she  looked 
so  like  theHittle  girl  who  had  struck  him  with 
those  sharp  flashing  teeth,  t h at  the^  whole  scene 
came  back,  and  he  felt  the  stroke  again  as  if  it 
had  just  been  given,  and  the  two  white  scars 
began  to  sting  as  they  did  after  the  did  Doctor 
had  burned  them  with  that  stick  of  gray  caustic, 
which  looked  so  like  a  slate  pencil,  and  felt  so 
much  like  the  end  of  a  red-hot  poker. 

It  took  something  more  than  a  gallop  to  set 
nim  right  after  this.  The  next  day  he  mentioned 
having  received  a  letter  from  a  mercantile  agent 
with  whom  he  had  dealings.  What  his  busi 
aess  was  is,  perhaps,  none  of  our  business  At 


202 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


any  rate,  it  required  him  to  go  at  once  to  the 
city  where  his  correspondent  resided. 

Independently  of  this  u  business  ”  which  jailed 
him,  there  may  have  been  other  motives,  such  as 
have  been  hinted  at.  People  who  have  been 
living  for  a  long  time  in  dreary  country-places, 
without  any  emotion  beyond  such  as  are  occa¬ 
sioned  by  a  trivial  pleasure  or  annoyance,  often 
get  crazy  at  last  for  a  vital  paroxysm  of  some 
kind  or  other.  In  this  state  they  rush  to  the 
great  cities  for  a  plunge  into  their  turbid  life- 
baths,  with  a  frantic  thirst  for  every  exciting 
pleasure,  which  makes  them  the  willing  and  easy 
victims  of  all  those  who  sell  the  Devil’s  wares 
on  commission.  The  less  intelligent  and  in¬ 
structed  class  of  unfortunates,  who  venture  with 
their  ignorance  and  their  instincts  into  what  is 
sometimes  called  the  “  life  ”  of  great  cities,  are 
put  through  a  rapid  course  of  instruction  which 
entitles  them  very  commonly  to  a  diploma  from 
the  police  court.  But  they  only  illustrate  the 
working  of  the  same  tendency  in  mankind  at 
large  which  has  been  occasionally  noticed  in  the 
sons  of  ministers  and  other  eminently  worthy 
people,  by  many  ascribed  to  that  intense  con« 
genital  hatred  for  goodness  which  distinguishes 
human  nature  from  that  of  the  brute,  but  per- 
haos  as  readily  accounted  for  by  considering  it 
as  the  yawning  and  stretching  of  a  young  sou. 
tramped  too  long  in  one  moral  posture. 

Richard  Yenner  was  a  young  man  of  remark 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


203 


nble  experience  for  his  years.  He  ran  less  risk, 
therefore,  in  exposing  himself  to  the  temptations 
and  dangers  of  a  great  city  than  many  older  men, 
who,  seeking  the  livelier  scenes  of  excitement  to 
be  found  in  large  towns  as  a  relaxation  after  the 
monotonous  routine  of  family-life,  are  too  often 
taken  advantage  of  and  made  the  victims  of  their 
sentiments  or  their  generous  confidence  in  their 
fellow-creatures.  Such  was  not  his  destiny.  There 
was  something  about  him  which  looked  as  if  he 
would  not  take  bullying" kindly.  He  had  also 
the  advantage  of  being  acquainted  with  most  of 
those  ingenious  devices  by  which  the  proverbial 
inconstancy  of  fortune  is  steadied  to  something 
more  nearly  approaching  fixed  laws,  and  the  dan¬ 
gerous  risks  which  have  so  often  led  young  men 
to  ruin  and  suicide  are  practically  reduced  to 
somewhat  less  than  nothing.  So  that  Mr.  Rich¬ 
ard  Venner  worked  off  his  nervous  energies  with¬ 
out  any  troublesome  adventure,  and  was  ready 
to  return  to  Rockland  in  less  than  a  week,  with¬ 
out  having  lightened  the  money-belt  he  wore 
round  his  body,  or  tarnished  the  long  glittering 
knifeuhe  carried  in  his  boot. 

Dick  had  sent  his  trunk  to  the  nearest  town 
through  which  the  railroad  leading  to  the  city 
passed.  He  rode  off  on  his  black  horse  and  left 
him  at  the  place  where  he  took  the  cars.  On  ar¬ 
riving  at  the  city  station,  he  took  a  coach  and 
diove  to  one  of  the  great  hotels.  Thither  drove 
tiso  a  sagacious-looking,  middie- aged  man,  who 


204 


ELSIE  VENNEIi. 

entered  his  name  as  “W,  Thompson  ”  in  the  book 
at  the  office  immediately  after  that  of  u  R.  Ven¬ 
ner.”  Mr.  “  Thompson”  kept  a  carelessly  ob¬ 
servant  eye  upon  Mr.  Venner  during  his  stay  at 
the  hotel,  and  followed  him  to  the  cars  when  he 
left,  looking  over  his  shoulder  when  he  bought 
his  ticket  at  the  station,  and  seeing  him  fairly 
off  without  obtruding  himself  in  any  offensive 
way  upon  his  attention.  Mr.  Thompson,  known 
in  other  quarters  as  Detective  Policeman  Terry, 
got  very  little  by  his  trouble.  Richard  Venner 
did  not  turn  out  to  be  the  wife-poisoner,  the 
defaulting  cashier,  the  river-pirate,  or  the  great 
counterfeiter.  He  paid  his  hotel-bill  as  a  gentle¬ 
man  should  always  do,  if  he  has  the  money 
and  can  spare  it.  The  detective  had  probabl} 
overrated  his  own  sagacity  when  he  ventured  to 
suspect  Mr.  Venner.  He  reported  to  his  chief 
that  there  was  a  knowing-looking  fellow  he  had 
been  round  after,  but  he  rather  guessed  he  was 
nothing  more  than  a  one  o’  them  Southern  sports¬ 
men.” 

The  poor  fellows  at  the  stable  where  Dick 
had  left  his  horse  had  had  trouble  enough  with 
him.  One  of  the  ostlers  was  limping  about  with 
a  lame  leg,  and  another  had  lost  a  mouthful  of 
his  coat,  which  came  very  near  carrying  a  piece 
of  his  shoulder  with  it.  When  Mr.  Venner  came 
back  for  his  beast,  he  was  as  wild  as  if  he  had 
just  been  lassoed,  screaming,  kicking,  rolling 
over  to  get  rid  of  his  saddle,  —  and  when  his 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


205 


rider  was  at  last  mounted,  jumping  about  in  a 
way  to  dislodge  any  common  horseman.  To 
all  this  Dick  replied  by  sticking  his  long  spurs 
deeper  and  deeper  into  his  flanks,  until  the  crea¬ 
ture  found  he  was  mastered,  and  dashed  off  as 
•  ' 

if  all  the  thistles  of  the  Pampas  were  pricking 
him. 

i:  One  more  gallop,  Juan  !  ”  This  was  in  the 
last  mile  of  the  road  before  he  came  to  the  town 
which  brought  him  in  sight  of  the  mansion-house. 
It  was  in  this  last  gallop  that  the  fiery  mustang 
and  his  rider  flashed  by  the  old  Doctor.  Cassia 
pointed  her  sharp  ears  and  shied  to  let  them 
pass.  The  Doctor  turned  and  looked  through 
the  little  round  glass  in  the  back  of  his  sulky. 

“  Dick  Turpin,  there,  will  find  more  than  hia 
match’ ”  said  the  Doctor. 


806 


ELSIE  VEKNKB. 


I 


CHAPTER  XII. 

THE  APOLLINEAN  INSTITUTE. 

(  With  Extracts  from  the  “ Report  of  the  Committee .”) 

The  readers  of  this  narrative  will  hardly  ex¬ 
pect  any  elaborate  details  of  the  educationaj 
management  of  the  Apollinean  Institute.  They 
cannot  be  supposed  to  take  the  same  interest  in 
its  affairs  as  was  shown  by  the  Annual  Commit¬ 
tees  who  reported  upon  its  condition  and  pros¬ 
pects.  As  these  Committees  were,  however,  an 
important  part  of  the  mechanism  of  the  estab¬ 
lishment,  some  general  account  of  their  organi¬ 
zation  and  a  few  extracts  from  the  Report  of  the 
one  last  appointed  may  not  be  out  of  place. 

Whether  Mr.  Silas  Peckham  had  some  contriv¬ 
ance  for  packing  his  Committees,  whether  they 
happened  always  to  be  made  up  of  optimists  by 
nature,  whether  they  were  cajoled  into  good-hu¬ 
mor  by  polite  attentions,  or  whether  they  were 
always  really  delighted  with  the  wonderful  ac¬ 
quirements  of  the  pupils  and  the  admirable  orde! 
the  school,  it  is  certain  that  their  Annual  Re* 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


207 


ports  were  couched  in  language  which  might 
warm  the  heart  of  the  most  cold-blooded  and  cal¬ 
culating  father  that  ever  had  a  family  of  daugh¬ 
ters  to  educate.  In  fact,  these  Annual  Reports 
were  considered  by  Mr.  Peckham  as  his  most 
effective  advertisements. 

The  first  thing,  therefore,  was  to  see  that  the 
Committee  was  made  up  of  persons  known  to 
the  public.  Some  worn-out  politician,  in  that 
leisurely  and  amiable  transition-state  which  comes 
between  official  extinction  and  the  paralysis  which 
will  finish  him  as  soon  as  his  brain  gets  a  little 
softer,  made  an  admirable  Chairman  for  Mr.  Peck- 
ham,  when  he  had  the  luck  to  pick  up  such  an 
article.  Old  reputations,  like  old  fashions,  are 
more  prized  in  the  massy  than  in  the  stony  dis¬ 
tricts.  An  effete  celebrity,  who  would  never  be 
heard  of  again  in  the  great  places  until  the  fu¬ 
neral  sermon  waked  up  his  memory  for  one  part¬ 
ing  spasm,  finds  himself  in  full  flavor  of  renown 
a  little  farther  back  from  the  changing  winds  of 
the  sea-coast.  If  such  a  public  character  was  not 
to  be  had,  so  that  there  was  no  chance  of  heading 
the  Report  with  the  name  of  the  Honorable  Mr 
Somebody,  the  next  best  thing  was  to  get  the 
Reverend  Dr.  Somebody  to  take  that  conspicu¬ 
ous  position.  Then  would  follow  two  or  three 
local  worthies  with  Esquire  after  their  names. 
If  any  stray  literary  personage  from  one  of  the 
great  cities  happened  to  be  within  reach,  he  was 
pounced  upon  by  Mr.  Silas  Peckham.  It  was  a 


208 


ELSIE  VENNER. 

hard  case  for  the  poor  man,  who  had  travelled  a 
hundred  miles  or  two  to  the  outside  suburbs  after 
peace  and  un watered  milk,  to  be  pumped  for  a 
speech  in  this  unexpected  way,  It  was  harder 
Btill,  if  he  had  been  induced  to  venture  a  few 
tremulous  remarks,  to  be  obliged  to  write  them 
out  for  the  “  Rockland  Weekly  Universe,”  with 
the  chance  of  seeing  them  used  as  an  advertising 
certificate  as  long  as  he  lived,  if  he  lived  as  long 
as  the  late  Dr.  Waterhouse  did  after  giving  his 
certificate  in  favor  of  Whitwell’s  celebrated  Ce¬ 
phalic  Snuff. 

The  Report  of  the  last  Committee  had  been 

signed  by  the  Honorable  — - ,  late -  of 

- ,  as  Chairman.  (It  is  with  reluctance  that 

the  name  and  titles  are  left  in  blank ;  but  our  pub¬ 
lic  characters  are  so  familiarly  known  to  the  whole 
community  that  this  reserve  becomes  necessary.) 
The  other  members  of  the  Committee  were  the 
Reverend  Mr.  Butters,  of  a  neighboring  town, 
who  was  to  make  the  prayer  before  the  Exercises 
of  the  Exhibition,  and  two  or  three  notabilities 
of  Rockland,  with  geoponic  eyes,  and  glabrous, 
bumpless  foreheads.  A  few  extracts  from  the 
Report  are  subjoined:  — 

“  The  Committee  have  great  pleasure  in  record¬ 
ing  their  unanimous  opinion,  that  the  Institutior 
was  never  in  so  flourishing  a  condition.  .  .  . 

u  The  health  of  the  pupils  is  excellent ;  the  ad 
mirable  quality  of  food  supplied  shows  itself  ir 


ELSIE  VEXXER. 


209 


their  appearance ;  their  blooming  aspect  excited 
the  admiration  of  the  Committee,  and  bears  tes¬ 
timony  to  the  assiduity  of  the  excellent  Matron. 

u .  moral  and  religious  condition  most 

encouraging,  which  they  cannot  but  attribute  to 
the  personal  efforts  and  instruction  of  the  faithful 
Principal,  who  considers  religious  instruction  a 
solemn  duty  which  lie  cannot  commit  to  other 
people. 

“ . great  progress  in  their  studies,  un¬ 

der  the  intelligent  superintendence  of  the  accom¬ 
plished  Principal,  assisted  by  Mr.  Badger,  [Mr. 
Langdon’s  predecessor,]  Miss  Barley,  the  lady 
who  superintends  the  English  branches,  Miss 
Crabs,  her  assistant  and  teacher  of  Modern  Lan¬ 
guages,  and  Mr.  Schneider,  teacher  of  French, 

German,  Latin,  and  Music . 

“  Education  is  the  great  business  of  the  Insti¬ 
tute.  Amusements  are  objects  of  a  secondary 
nature ;  but  these  are  by  no  means  neglected.  .  .  . 

u . English  compositions  of  great 

originality  and  beauty,  creditable  alike  to  the 
head  and  heart  of  their  accomplished  authors. 

. several  poems  of  a  very  high  order  of 

merit,  which  would  do  honor  to  the  literature 

of  any  age  or  country . life-like  drawings, 

showing  great  proficiency.  .  .  .  Many  converse 
fluently  in  various  modem  languages . per¬ 

form  the  most  difficult  airs  with  the  skill  of  pro¬ 
fessional  musicians.  .  .  . 

“ . advantages  unsurpassed,  if  equalled 

14 


VOL.  I. 


210 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


by  those  of  any  Institution  in  the  country,  and 
reflecting  the  highest  honor  on  the  distinguished 
Head  of  the  Establishment,  Silas  Peckham,  Es¬ 
quire,  and  his  admirable  Lady,  the  Matron,  with 
theii  worthy  assistants . ” 

The  perusal  of  this  Report  did  Mr.  Bernard 
more  good  than  a  week’s  vacation  would  have 
done.  It  gave  him  such  a  laugh  as  he  had  not 
had  for  a  month.  The  way  in  which  Silas  Peck- 
ham  had  made  his  Committee  say  what  he  wanted 
them  to  —  for  he  recognized  a  number  of  expres¬ 
sions  in  the  Report  as  coming  directly  from  the 
lips  of  his  principal,  and  could  not  help  thinking 
how  cleverly  he  had  forced  his  phrases,  as  jug¬ 
glers  do  the  particular  card  they  wish  their  dupe 
to  take  —  struck  him  as  particularly  neat  and 
pleasing. 

He  had  passed  through  the  sympathetic  and 
emotional  stages  in  his  new  experience,  and  had 
arrived  at  the  philosophical  and  practical  state, 
which  takes  things  coolly,  and  goes  to  work  to 
^  setjthfiiiLnght.  He  had  breadth  enough  of  view 
to  see  that  there  was  nothing  so  very  excep¬ 
tional  in  this  educational  trader’s  dealings  with 
Vis  subordinates,  but  he  had  also  manly  feeling 
enough  to  attack  the  particular  individual  in¬ 
stance  of  wrong  before  him.  There  are  plenty 
ol  dealers  in  morals,  as  in  ordinary  traffic,  who 
confine  themselves  to  wholesale  business.  Thej 
eave  the  small  necessity  of  their  next-door  neigh 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


211 


bor  to  the  retailers,  who  are  poorer  in  statistics 
and  general  facts,  but  richer  in  the  every-day  char¬ 
ities.  Mr.  Bernard  felt,  at  first,  as  one  does  whc 
Bees  a  gray  rat  steal  out  of  a  drain  and  begin 
gnawing  at  the  bark  of  some  tree  loaded  with 
fruit  or  blossoms,  which  he  will  soon  girdle,  if  he 
is  let  alone.  The  first  impulse  is  to  murder  him 
with  the  nearest  ragged  stone.  Then  one  re¬ 
members  that  he  is  a  rodent,  acting  after  the  law 
of  his  kind,  and  cools  down  and  is  contented  to 
drive  him  off  and  guard  the  tree  against  his  teeth 
for  the  future.  As  soon  as  this  is  done,  one  can 
watch  his  attempts  at  mischief  with  a  certain 
amusement. 

This  was  the  kind  of  process  Mr.  Bernard  had 
gone  through.  First,  the  indignant  surprise  of  a 
generous  nature,  when  it  comes  unexpectedly  into 
relations  with  a  mean  one.  Then  the  impulse  of 
extermination,  —  a  divine  instinct,  intended  to 
keep  down  vermin  of  all  classes  to  their  working 
averages  in  the  economy  of  Nature.  Then  a  re¬ 
turn  of  cheerful  tolerance,  —  a  feeling,  that,  if  the 
Deity  could  bear  with  rats  and  sharpers,  he  could ; 
with  a  confident  trust,  that,  in  the  long  run.  ter¬ 
riers  and  honest  men  would  have  the  upperhand, 
and  a  grateful  consciousness  that  he  had  been 
Bent  just  at  the  right  time  to  come  between  a 
patient  victim  and  the  master  who  held  her  in 
peonage. 

Having  once  made  up  his  mind  what  to  do, 
Mr.  Bernard  was  as  good-natured  and  hopeful  as 


212 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


ever.  He  had  the  great  advantage,  from  his  pro* 
fessional  training,  of  knowing  how  to  recognize 
and  deal  with  the  nervous  disturbances  to  which 
overtasked  women  are  so  liable.  He  saw  well 
enough  that  Helen  Darley  would  certainly  kill 
herself  or  lose  her  wits,  if  he  could  not  lighten 
ner  labors  and  lift  off  a  large  part  of  her  weight 
of  cares.  The  worst  of  it  was,  that  she  was  one 
of  those  women  who  naturally  overwork  tl  em- 
selves,  like  those  horses  who  will  go  at  the  top 
of  their  pace  until  they  drop.  Such  women  are 
dreadfully  unmanageable.  It  is  as  hard  reasoning 
with  them  as  it  would  have  been  reasoning  with 
Io,  when  she  was  flying  over  land  and  sea,  driven 
by  the  sting  of  the  never-sleeping  gadfly. 

This  was  a  delicate,  interesting  game  that  he 
played.  Under  one  innocent  pretext  or  another, 
he  invaded  this  or  that  special  province  she  had 
made  her  own.  He  would  collect  the  themes 
and  have  them  all  read  and  marked,  answer  all 
the  puzzling  questions  in  mathematics,  make  the 
other  teachers  come  to  him  for  directions,  and  in 
this  way  gradually  took  upon  himself  not  only  all 
the  general  superintendence  that  belonged  to  hia 
office,  but  stole  away  so  many  of  the  special 
duties  which  might  fairly  have  belonged  to  hia 
assistant,  that,  before  she  knew  it,  she  was  look¬ 
ing  better  and  feeling  more  cheerful  than  for  many 
and  many  a  month  before. 

\  When  the  nervous  energy  is  depressed  by  anj 
bodily  cause,  or  exhausted  by  d  ver  working,  then 


<j±4~CLf\$xi0y\  (;/t  hm,  f(rh 

ELSIE  YENNER.  21A 

follow  effects  which  have  often  been  misinterpret¬ 
ed  by  moralists,  and  especially  by  theologians. 

The  conscience  itself  becomes  neuralgic,  some¬ 
times  actually  Inflamed,  so  that  the  least  touch  is 
agony.  Of  all  liars  and  false  accusers,  a  sick 
conscience  is  the  most  inventive  and  indefatiga¬ 
ble.  The  devoted  daughter,  wife,  mother,  whose 
life  has  been  given  to  unselfish  labors,  who  has 
filled  a  place  which  it  seems  to  others  only  an 
angel  would  make  good,  reproaches  herself  with 
incompetence  and  neglect  of  duty.  The  humble 
Christian,  who  has  been  a  model  to  others,  calls 
himself  a  worm  of  the  dust  on  one  page  of  his 
diary,  and  arraigns  himself  on  the  next  for  com¬ 
ing  short  of  the  perfection  of  an  archangel. 

Conscience  itself  requires  a  conscience,  or  noth- 
ing  can  be  more  unscrupulous.  It  told  Saul  that 
he  did  well  in  persecuting  the  Christians.  It  has 
loaded  countless  multitudes  of  various  creeds  to 

O 

endless  forms  of  self-torture.  The  cities  of  India 
are  full  of  cripples  it  has  made.  The  hill-sides 
of  Syria  are  riddled  with  holes,  where  miserable 
hermits,  whose  lives  it  had  palsied,  lived  and  died 
like  the  vermin  they  harbored.  Our  libraries  are 
crammed  with  books  written  by  spiritual  hypo¬ 
chondriacs,  who  inspected  all  their  moral  secretions  .  > 

a  dozen  times  a  day.  They  are  full  of  interest, 
but  they  should  be  transferred  from  the  shell  of  ' 
the  theologian  to  that  of  the  medical  man  who 
makes  a  study  of  insanity. 

This  was  the  state  into  which  too  much  work 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


*14 

and  too  much  responsibility  were  bringing  Helen 
Darley,  when  the  new  master  came  and  lifted  so 
much  of  the  burden  that  was  crushing  her  as 
must  be  removed  before  she  could  have  a  chance 
to  recover  her  natural  elasticity  and  buoyancy, 
Many  of  the  noblest  women,  suffering  like  her, 
but  less  fortunate  in  being  relieved  at  the  righi 
moment,  die  worried  out  of  life  by  the  perpetual 
teasing  of  this  inflamed,  neuralgic  conscience. 
So  subtile  is  the  line  which  separates  the  true 
and  almost  angelic  sensibility  of  a  healthy,  bu4 
exalted  nature,  from  the  soreness  of  a  soul  which 
is  sympathizing  with  a  morbid  state  of  the  body 
that  it  is  no  wonder  they  are  often  confounded 
And  thus  many  good  women  are  suffered  to  per 
ish  by  that  form  of  spontaneous  combustion  in 
which  the  victim  goes  on  toiling  day  and  nighi 
with  the  hidden  fire  consuming  her,  until  all  at 
once  her  cheek  whitens,  and,  as  we  look  upon  her 
she  drops  away,  a  heap  of  ashes/  The  more  they 
overwork  themselves,  the  more  exacting  becomes 
the  sense  of  duty,  —  as  the  draught  of  the  loco¬ 
motive’s  furnace  blows  stronger  and  makes  the 
fire  burn  more  fiercely,  the  faster  it  spins  along 
the  track. 

It  is  not  very  likely,  as  was  said  at  the  begin¬ 
ning  of  this  chapter,  that  we  shall  trouble  our¬ 
selves  a  great  deal  about  the  internal  affairs  of 
the  Apollinean  Institute.  These  schools  are,  in 
the  nature  of  things,  not  so  very  unlike  each  othei 
as  to  require  a  minute  description  for  each  partio 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


215 


nlar  one  among  them.  They  have  all  very  much 
the  same  general  features,  pleasing  and  displeas¬ 
ing.  All  feeding-establishments  have  something 
odious  about  them,  —  from  the  wretched  country- 
nouses  where  paupers  are  farmed  out  to  the  low¬ 
est  bidder,  up  to  the  commons-tables  at  colleges, 
and  even  the  fashionable  boarding-house.  A  per¬ 
son^  appetite  should  be  at  war  with  no  other 
purse  than  his  own.  Young  people,  especially, 
who  have  a  bone-factory  at  work  in  them,  and 
have  to  feed  the  living  looms  of  innumerable 
growing  tissues,  should  be  provided  for,  if  possi¬ 
ble,  by  those  who  love  them  like  their  own  flesh 
and  blood.  Elsewhere  their  appetites  will  be  sure 
to  make  them  enemies,  or,  what  are  almost  as 
bad,  friends  whose  interests  are  at  variance  with 
the  claims  of  their  exacting  necessities  and  de¬ 
mands. 

Besides,  ail  commercial  transactions  in  regard 
to  the  most  sacred  interests  of  life  are  hateful 
even  to  those  who  profit  by  them.  The  clergy¬ 
man,  the  physician,  the  teacher,  must  be  paid ; 
but  each  of  them,  if  his  duty  be  performed  in 
the  true  spirit,  can  hardly  help  a  shiver  of  disgust 
when  money  is  counted  out  to  him  for  adminis¬ 
tering  the  consolations  of  religion,  for  saving  some 
precious  life,  for  sowing  the  seeds  of  Christian 
jivilization  in  young  ingenuous  souls. 

And  yet  all  these  schools,  with  their  provincial 
French  and  their  mechanical  accomplishments 
with  their  cheap  parade  of  diplomas  and  com 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


gib 


mencements  and  other  public  honors,  have  an 
ever  fresh  interest  to  all  who  see  the  task  they  are 
performing  in  our  new  social  order.  These  girls 
are  not  being  educated  for  governesses,  or  to  be 
exported,  with  other  manufactured  articles,  to 
colonies  where  there  happens  to  be  a  surplus  of 
males.  Most  of  them  will  be  wives,  and  every 
American-born  husband  is  a  possible  President 
of  these  United  States.  Any  one  of  these  girls 
may  be  a  four-years’  queen.  There  is  no  sphere 
of  human  activity  so  exalted  that  she  may  not 
be  called  upon  to  fill  it.  { 

But  there  i smoother  consideration  of  far  higher 
interest.  The  education  of  our  community  to  all 
that  is  beautiful  is  flowing  in  mainly  through  its 
women,  and  that  to  a  considerable  extent  by  the 
aid  of  these  large  establishments,  the  least  perfect 
of  which  do  something  to  stimulate  the  higher 
tastes  and  partially  instruct  them.  Sometimes 
there  is,  perhaps,  reason  to  fear  that  girls  will  be 
too  highly  educated  for  their  own  happiness,  if 
they  are  lifted  by  their  culture  out  of  the  range  of 
the  practical  and  every-day  working  youth  by 
whom  thev  are  surrounded.  But  this  is  a  risk  we 
must  take.  Our  young  men  come  into  active  life 
so  early,  that,  if  our  girls  were  not  educated- to 
something  beyond  mere  practical  duties,  our  ma¬ 
terial  prosperity  would  outstrip  our  culture  ;  as 
it  often  does  in  large  places  where  money  is  made 
too  rapidly.  This  is  the  meaning,  therefore,  of 
that  somewhat  ambitious  programme  com  mo* 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


217 


to  most  of  these  large  institutions,  at  which  we 
sometimes  smile,  perhaps  unwisely  or  uncharita¬ 
bly. 

We  shall  take  it  for  granted  that  the  routine  of 
instruction  went  on  at  the  Apollinean  Institute 
much  as  it  does  in  other  schools  of  the  same  class 
People,  young  or  old,  are  wonderfully  different,  if 
we  contrast  extremes  in  pairs.  They  approach 
much  nearer,  if  we  take  them  in  groups  of  twenty. 
Take  two  separate  hundreds  as  they  come,  with¬ 
out  choosing,  and  you  get  the  gamut  of  human 
character  in  both  so  completely  that  you  can 
strike  many  chords  in  each  which  shall  be  in  per¬ 
fect  unison  with  corresponding  ones  in  the  other. 
If  we  go  a  step  farther,  and  compare  the  popula¬ 
tion  of  two  villages  of  the  same  race  and  region, 
there  is  such  a  regularly  graduated  distribution 
and  parallelism  of  character,  that  it  seems  as  if 
Nature  must  turn  out  human  beings  in  sets  like 
chessmen. 

It  must  be  confessed  that  the  position  in  which 
Mr.  Bernard  now  found  himself  had  a  pleasing 
danger  about  it  which  might  well  justify  all  the 
fears  entertained  on  his  account  by  more  experi¬ 
enced  friends,  when  they  learned  that  he  was 
engaged  in  a  Young  Ladies’  Seminary.  The 
school  never  went  on  more  smoothly  than  during 
the  first  period  of  his  administration,  after  he  had 
arranged  its  duties,  and  taken  his  share,  and  even 
more  than  his  share,  upon  himself.  But  humar 
nature  does  not  wait  for  the  diploma  of  the  Apol 


E18 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


linean  Institute  to  claim  the  exercise  of  its  in¬ 
stincts  and  faculties.  These  young  girls  saw  but 
little  of  the  youth  of  the  neighborhood.  The 
mansion-house  young  men  were  off  at  college  or 
in  the  cities,  or  making  love  to  each  other’s  sis¬ 
ters,  or  at  anv  rate  unavailable  for  some  reason  oi 
other.  There  were  a  few  “clerks,”  —  that  is, 
young  men  who  attended  shops,  commonly  called 
“'stores,”  —  who  were  fond  of  walking  by  the  In¬ 
stitute,  when  they  were  off  duty,  for  the  sake  of 
exchanging  a  word  or  a  glance  with  any  one  of 
the  young  ladies  they  might  happen  to  know,  if 
any  such  were  stirring  abroad:  crude  young  men, 
mostly,  with  a  great  many  “  Sirs  ”  and  “  Ma’ams  ” 
in  their  speech,  and  with  that  style  of  address 
sometimes  acquired  in  the  retail  business,  as  if 
the  salesman  were  recommending  himself  to  a 
customer,  —  “  First-rate  family  article,  Ma’am  ; 
warranted  to  wear  a  lifetime ;  just  one  yard  and 
three  quarters  in  this  pattern,  Ma’am  ;  sha’n’t  I 
have  the  pleasure  ?  ”  and  .so  forth.  If  fhere  had 
been  ever  so  many  of  them,  and  if  they  had  been 
ever  so  fascinating,  the  quarantine  of  the  Institute 
Was  too  rigorous  to  allow  any  romantic  infection 
to  be  introduced  from  without. 

Anybody  might  see  what  would  happen,  with 
a  good-looking,  well-dressed,  well-bred  young 
man,  who  had  the  authority  of  a  master,  it  is 
true,  but  the  manners  of  a  friend  and  equal,  mov¬ 
ing  about  among  these  young  girls  day  after  day 
ais  eyes  meeting  theirs,  his  breath  mingling  with 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


219 


theirs,  his  voice  growing  familiar  to  them,  never 
in  any  hirsh  tones,  often  soothing,  encouraging, 
always  sympathetic,  with  its  male  depth  and 
breadth  of  sound  among  the  chorus  of  trebles,  as 
if  it  were  a  river  in  which  a  hundred  of  these 
ittle  piping  streamlets  might  lose  themselves  ; 
anybody  might  see  what  would  happen.  Young 
girls  wrote  home  to  their  parents  that  they  en¬ 
joyed  themselves  much,  this  term,  at  the  Institute, 
and  thought  they  were  making  rapid  progress  in 
their  studies.  There  was  a  great  enthusiasm  for 
the  young  master’s  reading-classes  in  English 
poetry.  Some  of  the  poor  little  things  began  to 
adorn  themselves  with  an  extra  ribbon,  or  a  bit  of 
such  jewelry  as  they  had  before  kept  for  great  oc¬ 
casions.  Dear  souls!  they  only  half  knew  what 
they  were  doing  it  for.  Does  the  bird  know  why 
its  feathers  grow  more  brilliant  and  its  voice  be¬ 
comes  musical  in  the  pairing  season  ? 

And  so,  in  the  midst  of  this  quiet  inland  town, 
where  a  mere  accident  had  placed  Mr.  Bernard 
Dangdon,  there  was  a  concentration  of  explosive 
materials  which  might  at  any  time  change  its  Ar¬ 
cadian  and  academic  repose  into  a  scene  of  dan¬ 
gerous  commotion.  What  said  Helen  Darley, 
when  she  saw  with  her  woman’s  glance  that  more 
than  one  gill,  when  she  should  be  looking  at  her 
book,  was  looking  over  it  toward  the  master’s 
lesk  ?  Was  her  own  heart  warmed  by  any  live¬ 
lier  feeling  than  gratitude,  as  its  life  began  tc 
flow  with  fuller  pulses,  and  the  morning  sky 


220 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


again  looked  bright  and  the  flowers  recovered 
their  lost  fragrance  ?  Was  there  any  strange, 
mysterious  affinity  between  the  master  and  the 
dark  girl  who  sat  by  herself  ?  Could  she  call  him 
'  at  will  by  looking  at  him  ?  Could  it  be  tha 
—  ?  It  made  her  shiver  to  think  of  it.  —  And 
who  was  that  strange  horseman  who  passed  Mr.  „ 
Bernard  at  dusk  the  other  evening,  looking  so  like 
Mephistopheles  galloping  hard  to  be  in  season  at 
the  witches’  Sabbath-gathering  ?  That  must  be 
)/  the  cousin  of  Elsie’s  who  wants  to  marry  her, 
they  say.  A  dangerous-looking  fellow  for  a  rival, 
if  one  took  a  fancy  to  the  dark  girl !  And  who  is 
she,  and  what  ?  —  by  what  demon  is  she  haunted, 
by  what  taint  is  she  blighted,  by  what  curse  is 
she  followed,  by  what  destiny  is  she  marked,  that 
her  strange  beauty  has  such  a  terror  in  it,  and 
that  hardly  one  shall  dare  to  love  her,  and  her  eye 
glitters  always,  but  warms  for  none  ? 

Some  of  these  questions  are  ours.  Some  were 
Helen  Barley’s.  Some  of  them  mingled  with  the 
dreams  of  Bernard  Langdon,  as  he  slept  the  night 
after  meeting  the  strange  horseman.  In  the  morn¬ 
ing  he  happened  to  be  a  little  late  in  entering  the 
school-room.  There  was  something  between  the 
Jeaves  of  the  Virgil  which  lay  upon  his  desk.  He 
Dpened  it  and  saw  a  freshly  gathered  mountain- 
llower.  He  looked  at  Elsie,  instinctively,  invol¬ 
untarily.  She  had  another  such  flower  on  her 
breast. 

A  young  girl’s  graceful  compliment,  —  that  is 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


221 


J. 


all,  —  no  doubt,  —  no  doubt.  It  was  odd  that  the 
flower  should  have  happened  to  be  laid  between 
the  leaves  of  the  Fourth  Book  of  the  “iEneid,”  a*  *- 
and  at  this  line, —  .  ,  b 

p*“ 

11  Incipit  effari,  mediaque  in  voce  resistit.”  ,  ^  y^ 

$k<.  i  £0^10  Sbw-f’  Isw  tt\J, 

A  remembrance  of  an  ancient  superstition  flashed 
through  the  master’s  mind,  and  he  determined  to 
try  the  Sortes  Virgiliance .  He  shut  the  volume, 
and  opened  it  again  at  a  venture.  —  The  stor\ 
of  Laocoon! 


He  read,  with  a  strange  feeling  of  unwilling 
fascination,  from  “  Horresco  referens  ”  to  “  Bis 
medium  amplezi ,”  and  flung  the  book  from  him, 
as  if  its  leaves  had  been  steeped  in  the  subtle  poi¬ 
sons  that  princes  die  of. 


—  itu  $*'«**' 


St.  Ji, 

,  I  -  <-  -r.  .oxr- 

it c*.  \  Jr 

,  ,  .  /  >  ailci+o  c  wnb^ 

(_koilrUM  , <*£<»*> p  ^  Y  a(Vtc^ 

C-ft  Lfr**  f 

r  it*  y*x  rt<  M.  j^b» 


.  1  t  ,  /.W (TuO-  TM 

1  •  ,  ,  „  , _ J  h  vu 

(rfi^A  /fLj-  f  S^TT 

Wv  —  ^  ^ 

nu  tu. . juJu-i  -  <*--« 

ar  —  KW 

«■'**  fr*  fhf  **  **  Sf*  ■  ^ 

ciwt*4  , Q~ji  iu’a*‘ 

KVU-J  -&U  Uai  Wu^i^  ' JSfc-W* 

HU  y  ( «*«*.  ^  ‘—7  ■**  ^ 

oJj-cAu,  ohaO.  /-W  UW  rtvt‘* 


#  , 


Z22 


ELSIE  VENNER, 


CHAPTER  XIII. 

CURIOSITY. 

People  will  talk.  Ciascun  lo  dice  is  a  tuno 
that  is  played  oftener  than  the  national  air  of 
this  country  or  any  other. 

“  That’s  what  they  say.  Means  to  marry  her, 
if  she  is  his  cousin.  Got  money  himself, — that’s 
the  story,  —  but  wants  to  come  and  live  in  the 
old  place,  and  get  the  Dudley  property  by-and- 
by.”  — u  Mother’s  folks  was  wealthy.”  — “  Twen¬ 
ty-three  to  twenty-five  year  old.”  —  “  He  a’ n’t 
more’n  twenty,  or  twenty-one  at  the  outside.” 
—  “  Looks  as  if  he  knew  too  much  to  be  only 
twenty  year  old.”  —  “  Guess  he’s  been  through 
the  mill,  —  don’t  look  so  green,  anyhow,  —  hey  ? 
Did  y’  ever  mind  that  cut  over  his  left  eye¬ 
brow  ?  ” 

So  they  gossipped  in  Rockland.  The  young 
fellows  could  make  nothing  of  Dick  Yenner, 
lie  was  shy  and  proud  with  the  few  who  made 
advances  to  him.  The  young  ladies  called  him 
handsome  and  romantic,  but  he  looked  at  them 
like  a  many-tailed  pacha  who  was  in  the  habit 
of  ordering  his  wives  by  the  dozen. 


ELSIE  VENN  EE. 


223 


4<  What  do  you  think  of  the  young  man  over 
there  at  the  Verniers’  ?  ”  said  Miss  Arabella 
Thornton  to  her  father. 

a  Handsome,”  said  the  Judge,  “  but  dangerous- 
looking.  His  face  is  indictable  at  common  law. 
Do  you  know,  my  dear,  I  think  there  is  a  blank 
at  the  Sheriff’s  office,  with  a  place  for  his  name 
in  it?” 

The  Judge  paused  and  looked  grave,  as  if  he 
had  just  listened  to  the  verdict  of  the  jury  and 
was  going  to  pronounce  sentence. 

“  Have  you  heard  anything  against  him  ?  ”  said 
the  Judge’s  daughter. 

“  Nothing.  But  I  don’t  like  these  mixed  bloods 
and  half-told  stories.  Besides,  I  have  seen  a  good 
many  desperate  fellows  at  the  bar,  and  I  have  a 
fancy  they  all  have  a  look  belonging  to  them. 
The  worst  one  I  ever  sentenced  looked  a  good 
deal  like  this  fellow.  A  wicked  mouth.  All  our 
other  features  are  made  for  us  ;  but  a  man  makes 
his  own  mouth.” 

11  Who  was  the  person  you  sentenced?” 

“  He  was  a  young  fellow  that  undertook  to 
garrote  a  man  who  had  won  his  money  at 
cards.  The  same  slender  shape,  the  same  cun¬ 
ning,  fierce  look,  smoothed  o\er  with  a  plausi¬ 
ble  air.  Depend  upon  it,  there  is  an  expression 
in  all  the  sort  of  people  who  live  by  their  wits 
when  they  can,  and  by  worse  weapons  when 
their  wits  fail  them,  that  we  old  law-doctors 
know  just  as  well  as  the  medical  counsellors 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


/ 


224 


J 


know  the  marks  of  disease  in  a  man’s  lace.  Dr. 
Kittredge  looks  at  a  man  and  says  he  is  going  to 
die  ;  I  look  at  another  man  and  say  he  is  going 
to  be  hanged,  if  nothing  happens.  I  don’t  say  so 
of  this  one,  but  I  don’t  like  his  looks.  I  wonder 
Dudley  Venner  takes  to  him  so  kindly.” 

“  It’s  all  for  Elsie’s  sake,”  said  Miss  Thornton  * 
u  I  feel  quite  sure  of  that.  He  never  does  any¬ 
thing  that  is  not  meant  for  her  in  some  way.  1 
suppose  it  amuses  her  to  have  her  cousin  about 
the  house.  She  rides  a  good  deal  since  he  has 
been  here.  Have  you  seen  them  galloping  about 
together  ?  He  looks  like  my  idea  of  a  Spanish 
bandit  on  that  wild  horse  of  his.” 

u  Possibly  he  has  been  one,  —  or  is  one,”  said 
the  Judge,  —  smiling  as  men  smile  whose  lips 
have  often  been  freighted  with  the  life  and  death 
of  their  fellow-creatures.  “  I  met  them  riding  the 
other  day.  Perhaps  Dudley  is  right,  if  it  pleases 
her  to  have  a  companion.  What  will  happen, 
though,  if  he  makes  love  to  her  ?  Will  Elsie  be 
easily  taken  with  such  a  fellow  ?  You  young 
folks  are  supposed  to  know  more  about  these 
matters  than  we  middle-aged  people.” 

“  Nobody  can  tell.  Elsie  is  not  like  anybody 
else.  The  _girls  who.  have  seen  most  of  her  think 
she  hates  men,  all  but  1  Dudley,’  as  she  calls  her 
father.  Some  of  tnem  doubt  whether  she  loves 
him.  They  doubt  whether  she  can  love  anything 
human,  except  perhaps  the  old  black  woman  who 
has  taken  care  of  her  since  she  was  a  baby.  Tire. 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


225 


village  people  have  the  strangest  stories  about  her. 
you  know  what  they  call  her  ?  ” 

She  whispered  three  words  in  her  father’s  ear. 
The  Judge  changed  color  as  she  spoke,  sighed 
deeply,  and  was  silent  as  if  lost  in  thought  for 
a  moment. 

“  I  remember  her  mother,”  he  said,  “  so  well ! 
A  sweeter  creature  never  lived.  Elsie  has  some¬ 
thing  of  her  in  her  look,  but  those  are  not  her 
mother’s  eyes.  They  were  dark,  but  soft,  as  in 
all  I  ever  saw  of  her  race.  Her  father’s  are  dark 
too,  but  mild,  and  even  tender,  I  should  say.  I 
don’t  know  what  there  is  about  Elsie’s,  —  but 
do  you  know,  my  dear,  I  find  myself  curiously 
influenced  by  them  ?  I  have  had  to  face  a  good 
many  sharp  eyes  and  hard  ones,  —  murderers’ 
eyes  and  pirates’,  —  men  who  had  to  be  watched 
in  the  bar,  where  they  stood  on  trial,  for  fear 
they  should  spring  on  the  prosecuting  officers  like 
tigers,  - —  but  T  never  saw  such  eyes  as  Elsie’s  ; 
and  yet  they  have  a  kind  of  drawing  virtue  or 
power  about  them,  —  I  don’t  know  what  else  to 
call  it :  have  you  never  observed  this  ?  ” 

His  daughter  smiled  in  her  turn. 

“  Never  observed  it  ?  Why,  of  course,  nobody 
could  be  with  Elsie  Yenner  and  not  observe  it. 
There  are  a  good  many  other  strange  things  about 
her  :  did  you  ever  notice  how  she  dresses  ?  ” 
a  Why,  handsomely  enough,  I  should  think,” 
ihe  Judge  answered.  u  I  suppose  she  dresses  as 
•he  likes,  and  sends  to  the  city  for  what  she 

VOL.  I.  15 


226 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


wants.  What  do  yon  mean  in  particular  ?  We 
men  notice  effects  in  dress,  but  not  much  in  de¬ 
tail.” 

“  You  never  noticed  the  colors  and  patterns, of 
her  dressgs  ?  You  never  remarked  anything  curi¬ 
ous  about  her  ornaments  ?  Well !  I  don’t  be¬ 
lieve  you  men  know,  half  the  time,  whether  a 
lady  wears  a  ninepenny  collar  or  a  thread-lace 
cape  worth  a  thousand  dollars.  I  don’t  believe 
you  know  a  silk  dress  from  a  bombazine  one.  I 
don’t  believe  you  can  tell  whether  a  woman  is  in 
black  or  in  colors,  unless  you  happen  to  know 
she  is  a  widow.  Elsie  Venner  has  a  strange 
taste  in  dress,  let  me  tell  you.  She  sends  for 
the  oddest  patterns  of  stuffs,  and  picks  out  the 
most  curious  things  at  the  jeweller’s,  whenever 
she  goes  to  town  with  her  father.  They  say 
the  old  Doctor  tells  him  to  let  her  have  her  way 
about  all  such  matters.  Afraid  of  her  mind,  if 
she  is  contradicted,  I  suppose. —  You’ve  heard 
about  her  going  to  school  at  that  place,  —  the 
‘  Institoot,’  as  those  people  call  it  ?  They  say 
she’s  bright  enough  in  her  way,  —  has  studied 
at  home,  you  know,  with  her  father  a  good  deal, 
—  knows  some  modern  languages  and  Latin,  I 
believe  :  at  any  rate,  she  would  have  it  so,  —  she 
must  go  to  the  ‘  Institoot.’  They  have  a  very 
good  female  teacher  there,  I  hear ;  and  the  new 
master,  that  young  Mr.  Langdon,  looks  and  talks 
.ike  a  well-educated  young  man.  I  wonder  what- 
they’ll  make  of  Elsie,  between  them  !  ” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


227 


So  they  talked  at  the  Judge’s,  in  the  calm, 
judicial-looking  mansion-house,  in  the  grave,  still 
library,  with  the  troops  of  wan-hued  law-books 
staring  blindly  out  of  their  titles  at  them  as  they 
tallied,  like  the  ghosts  of  dead  attorneys  fixed 
motionless  and  speechless,  each  with  a  thin, 
golden  film  over  his  unwinking  eyes. 

Jn  the  mean  time,  everything  went  on  quietly 
enough  after  Cousin  Richard’s  return.  A  man 
of  sense,  —  that  is,  a  man  who  knows  perfectly 
well  that  a  cool  head  is  worth  a  dozen  warm 
hearts  in  carrying  the  fortress  of  a  woman’s  affec- 
tions,  (not  yours,  “  Astarte,”  nor  ^yours,  “  Viola,”) 
—  who  knows  that  men  are  rejected  by  women 
every  day  because  they,  the  men,  love  them,  and 
are  accepted  every  day  because  they  do  not,  and 
therefore  can  study  the  arts  of  pleasing,  —  a  man 
of  sense,  when  he  finds  he  has  established  his 
second  parallel  too  soon,  retires  quietly  to  his 
first,  and  begins  working  on  his  covered  ways 
again.  [The  whole  art  of  love  may  be  read  in 
any  Encyclopaedia  under  the  title  Fortification , 
where  the  terms  just  used  are  explained.]  After 
the  little  adventure  of  the  necklace,  Dick  retreated 
at  once  to  his  first  parallel.  Elsie  loved  riding,  — 
and  would  go  off  with  him  on  a  gallop  now 
and  then.  He  was  a  master  of  all  those 
strange  Indian  horseback-feats  which  shame  the 
tricks  of  the  circus-riders,  and  used  to  astonish 
and  almost  amuse  her  sometimes  by  disappear¬ 
ing  from  his  saddle,  like  a  phantom  horseman, 


228 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


lying  flat  against  the  side  of  the  bounding  creat¬ 
ure  that  bore  him,  as  if  he  were  a  hunting  leop¬ 
ard  with  his  claws  in  the  horse’s  flank  and  flat¬ 
tening  himself  out  against  his  heaving  ribs. 
Elsie  knew  a  little  Spanish  too,  which  she  had 
Learned  from  the  young  person  who  had  taught 
her  dancing,  and  Dick  enlarged  her  vocabulary 
with  a  few  soft  phrases,  and  would  sing  her  a 
song  sometimes,  touching  the  air  upon  an  an¬ 
cient-looking  guitar  they  had  found  with  the 
ghostly  jthings  in  the  garret,  —  a  quaint  old  in¬ 
strument,  marked  E.  M.  on  the  back,  and  sup¬ 
posed  to  have  belonged  to  a  certain  Elizabeth 
^  Mascarene,  before  mentioned  in  connection  with 
a  work  of  art,  —  a  fair,  dowerless  lady,  who 
smiled  and  sung  and  faded  away,  unwedded,  a 
hundred  years  ago,  as  dowerless  ladies,  not  a 
few,  are  smiling  and  singing  and  fading  now, 
—  God  grant  each  of  them  His  love,  —  and  one 
human  heart  as  its  interpreter ! 

As  for  school,  Elsie  went  or  stayed  away  as 
she  liked.  Sometimes,  when  they  thought  she 
was  at  her  desk  in  the  great  school-room,  she 
/  would  be  on  The  Mountain,  —  alone  always. 
Dick  wanted  to  go  with  her,  but  she  would  never 
let  him.  Once,  when  she  had  followed  the  zigzag 
path  a  little  way  up,  she  looked  back  and  caught 
a  glimpse  of  him  following  her.  She  turned  and 
passed  him  without  a  word,  but  giving  him  a  look 
which  seemed  to  make  the  scars  on  his  wrist  fin- 
gle,  went  to  her  room,  where  she  locked  hersel/ 


vi  i .  W  c 


ll  av^ 


-yi 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


229 


op,  and  did  not  come  out  again  till  evening,—* 

Old  Sophy  having  brought  her  food,  and  set  it 
down,  not  speaking,  but  looking  into  her  eyes 
inquiringly,  like  a  dumb  beast  trying  to  feel  out 
his  master’s  will  in  his  face.  The  evening  was 
clear  and  the  moon  shining.  As  Dick  sat  at  his 
chamber-window,  looking  at  the  mountain-side,  ^ 
he  saw  a  gray-dressed  figure  flit  between  the  trees 
and  steal  along  the  narrow  path  which  led  up¬ 
ward.  Elsie’s  pillow  was  unpressed  that  night, 
but  she  had  not  been  missed  by  the  household,  — 
for  Dick  knew  enough  to  keep  his  own  counsel,  p  ' 
The  next  morning  she  avoided  him  and  went  off-  ***■  L 

early  to  school.  It  was  the  same  morning  that  ' 

the  young  master  found  the  flower  between  the 
leaves  of  his  Virgil. 

The  girl  got  over  her  angry  fit,  and  was  pleas¬ 
ant  enough  with  her  cousin  for  a  few  days  after 
this ;  but  she  shunned  rather  than  sought  him. 

She  had  taken  a  new  interest  in  her  books,  and 
especially  in  certain  poetical  readings  which  the 
master  conducted  with  the  elder  scholars.  This 
gave  Master  Langdon  a  good  chance  to  study  her 
ways  when  her  eye  was  on  her  book,  to  notice  the 
inflections  of  her  voice,  to  watch  for  any  expres¬ 
sion  of  her  sentiments ;  for,  to  tell  the  truth,  he 
had  a  kind  of  fear  that  the  girl  had  taken  a  fancy 
Ip  him,  and,  though  she  interested  him,  he  did  not 
ftusli  to  study  her  heart  from  the  inside. 

The  more  he  saw  her,  the  more  the  sadness  of 
ler  beauty  wrought  upon  him.  She  looked  as  d 


230 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


b 


ii 


<K 


V5' 


AS*“ 


yv# 


\aP^ 


\Vt 


\JsX’Y 


ghe  might  hate,  but  could  not  love.  She  hardly 
smiled  at  anything,  spoke  rarely,  but  seemed  10 
feel  that  her  natural  power  of  expression  lay  all  in 
her  bright  eyes,  the  force  of  which  so  many  had 
felt,  but  none  perhaps  had  tried  to  explain  to 
themselves.  A  person  accustomed  to  watch  th6 
faces  of  those  who  were  ailing  in  body  or  mind, 
and  to  search  in  every  line  and  tint  for  some  un¬ 
derlying  source  of  disorder,  could  hardly  help  an¬ 
alyzing  the  impression  such  a  face  produced  upon 
him.  The  light  of  those  beautiful  eyes  was  like 
[  the  lustre  of  ice ;  in  all  her  features  there  was 
nothing  of  that  human  warmth  which  shows  that 
sympathy  has  reached  the  soul  beneath  the  mask 
of  flesh  it  wears.  The  look  was  that  of  remote- 
nesst  of  utter  isolation.  There  was  in  its  stony 
apathy,  it  seemed  to  him,  the  pathos  which  we 
find  in  the  blind  who  show  no  film  or  speck  over 
the  organs  of  sight ;  for  Nature  had  meant  her  to 
be  lovely,  and  left  out  nothing  but  love.  And  yet 
the  master  could  not  help  feeling  that  some  in- 
stinctjwas  working  in  this  girl  which  was  in  some 
way  leading  her  to  seek  his  presence.  She  did 
not  lift  her  gliMering  eyes  upon  him  as  at  first.  It 
seemed  strange  that  she  did  not,  for  they  were 
Burely  her  natural  weapons  of  conquest.  Her 
color  did  not  come  and  go  like  that  of  young  girla 
under  excitement.  She  had  a  clear  brunette  com. 
plexion,  a  little  sun-touched,  it  may  be,  —  for  the 
master  noticed  once,  wher  her  necklace  was 
slightly  displaced,  that  a  faint  ring  or  band  of  a 


r\J 


v 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


231 


% 


little  lighter  shade  than  the  rest  of  the  surface  en¬ 
circled  her  neck.  What  was  the  slight  peculiarity 
of  her  enunciation,  when  she  read  ?  Not  a  lisp 
certainly,  but  the  least  possible  imperfection  in 
articulating  some  of  the  lingual  sounds,  — just 
enough  to  be  noticed  at  first,  and  quite  forgotten 
after  being  a  few  times  heard. 

Not  a  word  about  the  flower  on  either  side.  It 
was  not  uncommon  for  the  school-girls  to  leave  a 
rose  or  pink  or  wild  flower  on  the  teacher’s  desk. 
Finding  it  in  the  Virgil  was  nothing,  after  all ;  it 
was  a  little  delicate  flower,  which  looked  as  if  it 
were  made  to  press,  and  it  was  probably  shut  in 
by  accident  at  the  particular  place  where  ho  found 
it.  He  took  it  into  his  head  to  examine  it  in  a 
botanical  point  of  view.  He  found  it  was  not 
common,  —  that  it  grew  only  in  certain  localities, 
—  and  that  one  of  these  was  among  the  rocks  of 
the  eastern  spur  of  The  Mountain. 

It  happened  to  come  into  his  head  how  the 
Swiss  youth  climb  the  sides  of  the  Alps  to  find 
the  flower  called  the  Edelweiss  for  the  maidens 
whom  they  wish  to  please.  It  is  a  pretty  fancy, 
that  of  scaling  some  dangerous  height  before  ihe 
dawn,  so  as  to  gather  the  flower  in  its  freshness, 
that  the  favored  maiden  may  wear  it  to  church  on 
Sunday  morning,  a  proof  at  once  of  her  lover’s 
devotion  and  his  courage.  Mr.  Bernard  deter¬ 
mined  to  explore  the  region  where  this  flower  was 
Baid  to  grow,  that  he  might  see  where  the  wild 
girl  sought  the  blossoms  of  which  Nature  was  so 
’ealous. 


p 


232 


ELSIE  YEXNER. 


It  was  on  a  warm,  fair  Saturday  afternoon  that 
he  undertook  his  land-voyage  of  discovery.  He 
had  more  curiosity,  it  may  be,  than  he  would  have 
owned ;  for  he  had  heard  of  the  girl’s  wandering 
habits,  and  the  guesses  about  her  sylvan  haunts, 
and  was  thinking  what  the  chances  were  that  he 
should  meet  her  in  some  strange  place,  or  come 
upon  traces  of  her  which  would  tell  secrets  she 
would  not  care  to  have  known. 

The  woods  are  all  alive  to  one  who  walks 
through  them  with  his  mind  in  an  excited  state, 
and  his  eyes  and  ears  wide  open.  The  trees  are 
always  talking,  not  merely  whispering  with  their 
leaves,  (for  every  tree  talks  to  itself  in  that  way, 
even  when  it  stands  alone  in  the  middle  of  a  pas¬ 
ture,)  but  grating  their  boughs  against  each  other, 
as  old  horn-handed  farmers  press  their  dry,  rus¬ 
tling  palms  together,  dropping  a  nut  or  a  leaf  or  a 
twig,  clicking  to  the  tap  of  a  woodpecker,  or  rus¬ 
tling  as  a  squirrel  flashes  -along  a  branch.  It  was 
now  the  season  of  singing-birds,  and  the  woods 
were  haunted  with  mysterious,  tender  music. 
The  voices  of  the  birds  which  love  the  deeper 
shades  of  the  forest  are  sadder  than  those  of  the 
open  fields  :  these  are  the  nuns  who  have  taken 
the  veil,  the  hermits  that  have  hidden  themselves 
away  from  the  world  and  tell  their  griefs  to  the 
Infinite  listening  Silences  of  the  wilderness,  —  for 
the  one  deep  inner  silence  that  Nature  break? 
with  her  fitful  superficial  sounds  becomes  multi 
plied  as  the  image  of  a  star  in  ruffled  water? 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


23* 

Strange!  The  woods  at  first  convey  the  impres¬ 
sion  of  profound  repose,  and  yet,  if  you  watch  their 
ways  with  open  ear,  you  find  the  life  which  is  in 
them  is  restless  and  nervous  as  that  of  a  woman: 
the  little  twigs  are  crossing  and  twining  and  sep* 
arating  like  slender  fingers  that  cannot  be  still , 
the  stray  leaf  is  to  be  flattened  into  its  place  like  a 
truant  curl ;  the  limbs  sway  and  twist,  impatient 
of  their  constrained  attitude ;  and  the  rounded 
masses  of  foliage  swell  upward  and  subside  from 
time  to  time  with  long  soft  sighs,  and,  it  may 
be,  the  falling  of  a  few  rain-drops  which  had  lain 
hidden  among  the  deeper  shadows.  I  pray  you, 
notice,  in  the  sweet  summer  days  which  will  soon 
see  you  among  the  mountains,  this  inward  tran¬ 
quillity  that  belongs  to  the  heart  of  the  woodland, 
with  this  nervousness,  for  I  do  not  know  what 
else  to  call  it,  of  outer  movement.  One  would 
say,  that  Nature,  like  untrained  persons,  could  not 
sit  still  without  nestling  about  or  doing  something 
with  her  limbs  or  features,  and  that  high  breeding 
was  only  to  be  looked  for  in  trim  gardens,  where 
the  soul  of  the  trees  is  ill  at  case  perhaps,  but  theii 
manners  are  unexceptionable,  and  a  rustling 
branch  or  leaf  falling  out  of  season  is  an  in 
decorum.  The  real  forest  is  hardly  still  except 
in  the  Indian  summer ;  then  there  is  death  in  the 
house,  and  they  are  waiting  for  the  sharp  shrunk 
en  months  to  come  with  white  raiment  fur  the 
Bummer’s  burial. 

There  were  many  hemlocks  in  this  neighbor 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


234  ' 

hood,  the  grandest  and  most  solemn  ol  all  the 
forest-trees  in  the  mountain  regions.  Up  to  a 
certain  period  of  growth  they  are  eminently  beau¬ 
tiful,  their  boughs  disposed  in  the  most  graceful 
pagoda-like  series  of  close  terraces,  thick  and  dark 
with  green  crystalline  leaflets.  In  spring  the  ten¬ 
der  snoots  come  out  of  a  paler  green,  finger-like, 
as  if  they  were  pointing  to  the  violets  at  their 
feet.  But  when  the  trees  have  grown  old,  and 
their  rough  boles  measure  a  yard  and  more 
through  their  diameter,  they  are  no  longer  beau¬ 
tiful,  but  they  have  a  sad  solemnity  all  their  own, 
too  full  of  meaning  to  require  the  heart’s  com¬ 
ment  to  be  framed  in  words.  Below,  all  their 
earthward-looking  branches  are  sapless  and  shat¬ 
tered,  splintered  by  the  weight  of  many  winters’ 
snows ;  above,  they  are  still  green  and  full  of  life, 
but  their  summits  overtop  all  the  deciduous  trees 
around  them,  and  in  their  companionship  with 
heaven  they  are  alone.  On  these  the  lightning 
loves  to  fall.  One  such  Mr.  Bernard  saw,  —  or 
rather,  what  had  been  one  such ;  for  the  bolt  had 
torn  the  tree  like  an  explosion  from  within,  and 
the  ground  was  strewed  all  around  the  broken 
stump  with  flakes  of  rough  bark  and  strips  and 
chips  of  shivered  wood,  into  which  the  old  tree 
had  been  rent  by  the  bursting  rocket  from  the 
thunder-cloud. 

- The  master  had  struck  up  The  Mountain 

obliquely  from  the  western  side  of  the  Dudley 
Baansion-house.  In  this  way  he  ascended  until 


ELSIE  VENKER. 


'  233 

he  reached  a  point  many  hundred  feet  above  the 
level  of  the  plain,  and  commanding  all  the  coun¬ 
try  beneath  and  around.  Almost  at  his  feet  he 
eaw  the  mansion-house,  the  chimney  standing  out 
of  the  middle  of  the  roof,  or  rather,  like  a  black 
square  hole  in  it,  —  the  trees  almost  directly  over 
their  stems,  the  fences  as  lines,  the  whole  nearly 
as  an  architect  would  draw  a  ground-plan  of  the 
house  and  the  inclosures  round  it.  It  fright 
ened  him  to  see  how  the  huge  masses  of  rock 
and  old  forest-growths  hung  over  the  home  be¬ 
low.  As  he  descended  a  little  and  drew  near 
the  ledge  of  evil  name,  he  was  struck  with  the 
appearance  of  a  long  narrow  fissure  that  ran 
parallel  with  it  and  above  it  for  many  rods,  not 
seemingly  of  very  old  standing,  —  for  there  were 
many  fibres  of  roots  which  had  evidently  been 
snapped  asunder  when  the  rent  took  place,  and 
some  of  which  were  still  succulent  in  both  sep¬ 
arated  portions. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  made  up  his  mind,  when  he 
set  forth,  not  to  come  back  before  he  had  exam¬ 
ined  the  dreaded  ledge.  He  had  half  persuaded 
himself  that  it  was  scientific  curiosity.  He 
wished  to  examine  the  rocks,  to  see  what  flow • 
ers  grew  there ,  and  perhaps  to  pick  up  an  ad¬ 
venture  in  the  zoological  line ;  for  he  had  on  a 
pair  of  high,  stout  boots,  and  he  carried  a  stick 
in  his  hand,  which  was  forked  at  one  extremity 
bo  as  to  be  very  convenient  to  hold  down  a 
cratalus  with,  if  he  should  happen  to  encountei 


836 


ELSIE  VE^INER. 


one.  He  knew  the  aspect  of  the  ledge  from  a 
distance;  for  its  bald  and  leprous-looking  de¬ 
clivities  stood  out  in  their  nakedness  from  the 
wooded  sides  of  The  Mountain,  when  this  was 
viewed  from  certain  points  of  the^  village.  But 
the  nearer  aspect  of  the  blasted  region  had  some* 
tiling  frightful  in  it.  The  cliffs  were  water-worn, 
as  if  they  had  been  gnawed  for  thousands  of 
years  by  hungry  waves.  In  some  places  they 
overhung  their  base  so  as  to  look  like  leaning 
towers  which  might  topple  over  at  any  minute. 
In  other  parts  they  were  scooped  into  niches  or 
caverns.  Here  and  there  they  were  cracked  in 
deep  fissures,  some  of  them  of  such  width  that 
one  might  enter  them,  if  he  cared  to  run  the 
risk  of  meeting  the  regular  tenants,  who  might 
treat  him  as  an  intruder. 

Parts  of  the  ledge  were  cloven  perpendicu¬ 
larly,  with  nothing  but  cracks  or  slightly  project¬ 
ing  edges  in  which  or  on  which  a  foot  could 
find  hold.  High  up  on  one  of  these  precipitous 
walls  of  rock  he  saw  some  tufts  of  flowers,  and 
knew  them  at  once  for  the  same  that  he  had 
found  between  the  leaves  of  his  Virgil.  Not 
there,  surely!  No  woman  would  have  clung 
against  that  steep,  rough  parapet  to  gather  an 
idle  blossom.  And  yet  the  master  looked  round 
everywhere,  and  even  up  the  side  of  that  rock, 
to  see  if  there  were  no  signs  of  a  woman’s  foot¬ 
step.  He  peered  about  curiously,  as  if  his  eye 
might  fall  on  some  of  those  fragments  of  dress 


237 


ELSIE  VENDER. 

v 

which  women  leave  after  them,  whenever  they 
run  against  each  other  or  against  anything  else, 
• —  in  crowded  ballrooms,  in  the  brushwood  after 
picnics,  on  the  fences  after  rambles,  scattered 
round  over  every  place  which  has  witnessed  an 
act  of  violence,  where  rude  hands  have  been 
laid  upon  them.  Nothing.  Stop,  though,  one 
moment.  That  stone  is  smooth  and  polished, 
as  if  it  had  been  somewhat  worn  by  the  press¬ 
ure  of  human  feet.  There  is  one  twig  broken 
among  the  stems  of  that  clump  of  shrubs.  He 
put  his  foot  upon  the  stone  and  took  hold  of 
the  close-clinging  shrub.  In  this  way  he  turned 
a  sharp  angle  of  the  rock  and  found  himself  on 
a  natural  platform,  which  lay  in  front  of  one  of 

the  wider  fissures.  —  whether  the  mouth  of  a  cav- 

/ 

ern  or  not  he  could  not  yet  tell.  A  flat  stone 

made  an  easy  seat,  upon  which  he  sat  down,  as 

he  was  very  glad  to  do,  and  looked  mechanically 

about  him.  A  small  fragment  splintered  from 

the  rock  was  at  his  feet.  He  took  it  and  threw 

it  down  the  declivity  a  little  below  where  he  sat. 

•» 

He  looked  about  for  a  stem  or  a  straw  of  some 
kind  to  bite  upon,  —  a  country-instinct,  —  relic, 
no  doubt,  of  the  old  vegetable-feeding  habits  of 
Eden.  Is  that  a  stem  or  a  straw?  He  picked  it 
up.  It  was  a  hajr-pin. 

To  say  that  Mr.  Langdon  had  a  strange  sort 
of  thrill  shoot  through  him  at  the  sight  of  this 
harmless  little  implement  would  be  a  statement 
not  at  variance  with  the  fact  of  the  case.  That 


238 


ELSIE  VENNER 


y 


YW 


<K 

•n^> 


smooth  stone  had  been  often  trodden,  and  vj 
what  foot  he  could  not  doubt.  He  rose  up  from 
his  seat  to  look  round  for  other  signs  of  a  wom¬ 
an’s  visits.  What  if  there  is  a  cavern  here,  where 
she  has  a  retreat,  fitted  up,  perhaps,  as  anchorites 
fitted  their  cells,  —  nay,  it  maybe,  carpeted  and 
mirrored,  and  with  one  of  those  tiger-skins  for  a 
couch,  such  as  they  say  the  girl  loves  to  lie  on  ? 
Let  us  look,  at  any  rate. 

Mr.  Bernard  walked  to  the  mouth  of  the  cav¬ 
ern  or  fissure  and  looked  into  it.  His  look  wa9 
met  by  the  glitter  of  two  diamond  eyes,  small, 
sharp,  cold,  shining  out  of  the  darkness,  but  glid¬ 
ing  with  a  smooth,  steady  motion  towards  the 
light,  and  himself.  He  stood  fixed,  struck  dumb, 
staring  back  into  them  with  dilating  pupils  and 
sudden  numbness  of  fear  that  cannot  move,  as  in 
the  terror  of  dreams.  The  two  sparks  of  light 
came  forward  until  they  grew  to  circles  of  flame, 
and  all  at  once  lifted  themselves  up  as  if  in  angry 
surprise.  Then  for  the  first  time  thrilled  in  Mr. 
Bernard’s  ears  the  dreadful  sound  that  nothing 
which  breathes,  be  it  man  or  brute,  can  hear 
unmoved,  —  the  long,  loud,  stinging: whirr,  as  the 
huge,  thick-bodied  reptile  shook  his  many-jointed 
rattle  and  adjusted  his  loops  for  the  fatal  stroke. 
His  eyes  were  drawn  as  with  magnets  toward  the 
circles  of  flame.  His  ears  rung  as  in  the  over¬ 
ture  to  tlie^swQoning  di^m  of  xhlorafiirm.  Na¬ 
ture  was  before  man  with  her  anaesthetics :  the 
"iat’e  first  shake  stupefies  the  mouse  ;  the  lion’* 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


239 


first  shake  deadens  the  man’s  fear  and  feeling, 
and  the  crotalus  paralyzes  before  he  strikes.  He 
waited  as  in  a  trance,  —  waited  as  one  that  longs 
to  have  the  blow  fall,  and  all  over,  as  the  man  who 
shall  be  in  two  pieces  in  a  second  waits  for  the 
axe  to  drop.  But  while  he  looked  straight  into 
the  flaming  eyes,  it  seemed  to  him  that  they  were 
losing  their  light  and  terror,  that  they  were  grow¬ 
ing  tame  and  dull;  the  charm  was  dissolving  the 
numbness  was  passing  away,  he  could  move  once 
more.  He  heard  a  light  breathing  close  to  his 
ear,  and,  half  turning,  saw  the  face  of  Elsie  Ven- 
ner^looking  motionless  into  the  reptile’3_.eyes, 
which  had  shrunk  and  faded  under  the  stronger 
enchantment  of  her  own. 


240 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

FAMILY  SECRETS. 

It  was  commonly  understood  in  the  town  of 
Rockland  that  Dudley  Venner  had  had  a  great 
deal  of  trouble  with  that  daughter  of  his,  so  hand- 
Bome,  yet  so  peculiar,  about  whom  there  were  so 
many  strange  stories.  There  was  no  end  to  the 
tales  which  were  told  of  her  extraordinary  doings. 
Yet  her  name  was  never  coupled  with  that  of  any 
youth  or  man,  until  this  cousin  had  provoked  re¬ 
mark  bv  his  visit ;  and  even  then  it  was  oftener 
in  the  shape  of  wondering  conjectures  whether  he 
would  dare  to  make  love  to  her,  than  in  any  pre¬ 
tended  knowledge  of  their  relations  to  each  other, 
that  the  public  tongue  exercised  its  village-pre¬ 
rogative  of  tattle. 

The  more  common  version  of  the  trouble  at  the 
mansion-house  was  this :  —  Elsie  was  not  exactly 
in  her  right jpind.  Her  temper  was  singular,  her 
tastes  were  anomalous,  her  habits  were  lawless, 
her  antipathies  were  many  and  intense,  and  she 
was  liable  to  explosions  of  ungovernable  anger. 
Some  said  that  was  not  the  worst  of  it.  At 
oearly  fifteen  years  old,  when  she  was  growing 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


241 


fast,  and  in  an  irritable  state  of  m'nd  and  body, 
she  had  had  a  governess  placed  over  her  for 
whom  she  had  conceived  an  aversion.  It  was 
whispered  among  a  few  who  knew  more  of  the 
family  secrets  than  others,  that,  worried  and  ex¬ 
asperated  by  the  presence  and  jealous  oversigh 
of  this  person,  Elsie  had  attempted  to  get  finally 
rid  of  her  by  unlawful  means,  such  as  young  girls 
have  been  known  to  employ  in  their  straits,  and 
to  which  the  sex  at  all  ages  has  a  certain  instinct¬ 
ive  tendency,  in  preference  to  more  palpable  in¬ 
struments  for  the  righting  of  its  wrongs.  At  any 
rate,  this  governess  had  been  taken  suddenly  ill, 
and  the  Doctor  had  been  sent  for  at  midnight. 
Old  Sophy  had  taken  her  master  into  a  room 
apart,  and  said  a  few  words  to  him  which  turned 
him  as  white  as  a  sheet.  As  soon  as  he  recov¬ 
ered  himself,  he  sent  Sophy  out,  called  in  the  old 
Doctor,  and  gave  him  some  few  hints,  on  which 
he  acted  at  once,  and  had  the  satisfaction  of  see¬ 
ing  his  patient  out  of  danger  before  he  left  in  the 
morning.  It  is  proper  to  say,  that,  during  the  fol¬ 
lowing  days,  the  most  thorough  search  was  made 
in  every  nook  and  cranny  of  those  parts  of  the 
house  which  Elsie  chiefly  haunted,  but  nothing 
was  found  which  might  be  accused  of  having 
been  the  intentional  cause  of  the  probably  acci¬ 
dental  sudden  illness  of  the  governess.  From 
this  time  forward  her  father  was  never  easy 
Should  he  keep  her  apart,  or  shut  her  up,  for  fear 
»f  risk  to  others,  and  so  lose  every  chance  of 

IQ 


VOL.  I. 


*42 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


restoring  her  mind  to  its  healthy  tone  by  kindlj 
influences  and  intercourse  with  wholesome  na¬ 
tures  ?  There  was  no  proof,  only  presumption, 
as  to  the  agency  of  Elsie  in  the  matter  referred 
to.  But  the  doubt  was  worse,  perhaps,  than  cer« 
tainty  would  have  been,  —  for  then  he  would  have 
known  what  to  do. 

lie  took  the  old  Doctor  as  his  adviser.  The 
shrewd  old  man  listened  to  the  father’s  story,  his 
explanations  of  possibilities,  of  probabilities,  ol 
dangers,  of  hopes.  When  he  had  got  through, 
the  Doctor  looked  him  in  the  face  steadily,  as  if 
he  were  saying,  Is  that  all  ? 

The  father’s  eyes  fell.  This  was  not  all.  There 
was  something  at  the  bottom  of  his  soul  which 
he  could  not  bear  to  speak  of,  —  nay,  which,  as 
often  as  it  reared  itself  through  the  dark  waves 
of  unworded  consciousness  into  the  breathing  air 
of  thought,  he  trod  down  as  the  ruined  angels 
tread  down  a  lost  soul  trying  to  come  up  out  of 
the  seething  sea  of  torture.  Only  this  one  daugh¬ 
ter  !  No  !  God  never  would  have  ordained  such 
a  thing.  There  was  nothing  ever  heard  of  like  it ; 
it  could  not  be ;  she  was  ill,  —  she  would  outgrow 
all  these  singularities ;  he  had  had  an  aunt  who 
was  peculiar ;  he  had  heard  that  hysteric  girls 
ihowed  the  strangest  forms  of  moral  obliquity  fox 
a  time,  but  came  right  at  last.  She  would  change 
all  at  once,  when  her  health  got  more  firmly  set¬ 
tled  in  the  course  of  her  growth.  Are  there  noi 
tough  buds  that  open  into  sweet  flowers  ?  A^e 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


243 


there  not  fruits,  which,  while  unripe,  are  not  to  be 
tasted  or  endured,  which  mature  into  the  richest 
taste  and  fragrance  ?  In  God’s  good  time  she 
Would  come  to  her  true  nature  ;  her  eyes  would 
lose  that  frightful,  cold  glitter ;  her  lips  would  not 
Feel  so  cold  when  she  pressed  them  against  hia 
cheek ;  and  that  faint  birth-mark,  her  mother 
swooned  when  she  first  saw,  would  fade  wholly 
out,  —  it  was  less  marked,  surely,  now  than  it 
used  to  be  ! 

So  Dudley  Venner  felt,  and  would  have  thought, 
if  he  had  let  his  thoughts  breathe  the  air  of  his 
soul.  But  the  Doctor  read  through  words  and 
thoughts  and  all  into  the  father’s  consciousness. 
There  are  states  of  mind  which  may  be  shared 
by  two  persons  in  presence  of  each  other,  which 
remain  not  only  unworded,  but  unthoughted ,  if 
such  a  word  may  be  coined  for  our  special  need. 
Such  a  mutually  interpenetrative  consciousness 
there  was  between  the  father  and  the  old  physi¬ 
cian.  By  a  common  impulse,  both  of  them  rose 
in  a  mechanical  way  and  went  to  the  western 
window,  where  each  started,  as  he  saw  the  other’s 
look  directed  towards  the  white  stone  which  stood 
in  the  midst  of  the  small  plot  ol  green  turf. 

The  Doctor  had,  for  a  moment,  forgotten  him- 
k elf,  but  he  looked  up  at  the  clouds,  which  were 
angry,  and  said,  as  if  speaking  of  the  weather, 

•  It  is  dark  now,  but  we  hope  it  will  clear  up  by-_ 
and-by.  J  There  are  a  great  many  more  clouds 
than  rains,  and  more  rains  than  strokes  of  light- 


.Mf 

&  i 


244 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


rung,  and  more  strokes  of  lightning  than  there  are. 
people  killed.  We  must  let  this  girl  of  ours  have 
her  way,  as  far  as  it  is  safe.  Send  away  this 
woman  she  hates,  quietly.  Get  her  a  foreigner 
for  a  governess,  if  you  can,  —  one  that  can  dance 
and  sing  and  will  teach  her.  In  the  house  old 
Sophy  will  watch  her  best.  Out  of  it  you  must 
trust  her,  I  am  afraid,  —  for  she  will  not  be  fol¬ 
lowed  round,  and  she  is  in  less  danger  than  you 
think.  If  she  wanders  at  night,  find  her,  if  you 
can ;  the  woods  are  not  absolutely  safe.  If  she 
will  be  friendly  with  any  young  people,  have 
them  to  see  her,  —  young  men,  especially.  She 
will  not  love  any  one  easily,  perhaps  not  at  all; 
yet  love  would  be  more  like  to  bring  her  right 
than  anything  else.  If  any  young  person  seems 
in  danger  of  falling  in  love  with  her,  send  him  to 
me  for  counsel.” 

Dry,  hard  advice,  but  given  from  a  kind  heart, 
with  a  moist  eye,  and  in  tones  which  tried  to  be 
cheerful  and  were  full  of  sympathy.  This  advice 
was  the  key  to  the  more  than  indulgent  treatment 
which,  as  we  have  seen,  the  girl  had  received 
from  her  father  and  all  about  her.  The  old  Doc¬ 
tor  often  came  in,  in  the  kindest,  most  natural 
l 

Bort  of  way,  got  into  pleasant  relations  with  El 
sie  by  always  treating  her  in  the  same  easy  man¬ 
ner  as  at  the  great  party,  encouraging  all  her 
harmless  fancies,  and  rarely  reminding  her  that 
he  was  a  professional  adviser,  except  when  she 
came  out  of  her  own  accord,  as  in  the  talk  thej 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


245 


bad  at  the  party,  telling  him  of  some  wild  trick 
Bhe  had  been  playing. 

"  Let  her  go  to  the  girls’  school,  by  all  means,” 
said  the  Doctoi,  when  she  had  begun  to  talk 
About  it.  u  Possibly  she  may  take  to  some  of 
-file  girls  or  of  the  teachers.  Anything  to  interest 
her.  Fiiendship,  love,  religion,  —  whatever  will 
set  her  nature  at  work.  We  must  have  head¬ 
way  on,  or  there  will  be  no  piloting  her.  Action 
first  of  all,  and  then  we  will  see  what  to  do 
with  it.” 

So,  when  Cousin  Richard  came  along, 
Doctor,  though  he  did  not  like  his  looks  any  too 
well,  told  her  father  to  encourage  his  staying  for 
a  time.  If  she  liked  him,  it  was  good ;  if  she 
only  tolerated  him,  it  was  better  than  nothing. 

“  You  know  something  about  that  nephew  of 
yours,  during  these  last  years,  I  suppose  ?  ”  the 
Doctor  said.  “  Looks  as  if  he  had  seen  life. 
Has  a  scar  that  was  made  by  a  sword-cut,  and 
a  white  spot  on  the  side  of  his  neck  that  looks 


like  a  bullet-mark.  I  think  he  has  been  what 
folks  call  a  4  hard  customer.’  ” 

Dudley  Venner  owned  that  he  had  heard  little 
or  nothing  of  him  of  late  years.  He  had  invited 
himself,  and  of  course  it  would  not  be  decent 
not  to  receive  him  as  a  relative.  He  thought 
Elsie  rather  liked  having  him  about  the  house 
for  a  while.  She  was  very  capricious,  —  acted 
as  if  she  fancied  him  one  day  and  disliked  him 
the  next.  He  did  not  know,  —  but  sometimes 


246 


ELSIE  VENNEE. 


thought  that  this  nephew  of  his  might  take  a  seri 
ous  liking  to  Elsie.  What  should  he  do  about 
\t,  if  it  turned  out  so  ? 

The  Doctor  lifted  his  eyebrows  a  little.  He 
thought  there  was  no  fear.  Elsie  was  naturally 
what  they  call  a  man-hater,  and  there  was  very 
little  danger  of  any  sudden  passion  springing  up 
between  two  such  young  persons.  Let  him  stay 
awhile ;  it  gives  her  something  to  think  about. 
So  he  stayed  awhile,  as  we  have  seen. 

The  more  Mr.  Richard  became  acquainted 
with  the  family,  —  that  is,  with  the  two  persons 
of  whom  it  consisted,  —  the  more  favorably  the 
idea  of  a  permanent  residence  in  the  mansion- 
house  seemed  to  impress  him.  The  estate  was 
large,  —  hundreds  of  acres,  with  woodlands  and 
meadows  of  great  value.  The  father  and  daugh¬ 
ter  had  been  living  quietly,  and  there  could  not 
be  a  doubt  that  the  property  which  came  through 
the  Dudleys  must  have  largely  increased  of  late 
years.  It  was  evident  enough  that  they  had  an 
abundant  income,  from  the  way  in  which  Elsie’s 
caprices  were  indulged.  She  had  horses  and  car¬ 
riages  to  suit  herself ;  she  sent  to  the  great  city 
for  everything  she  wanted  in  the  way  of  dress. 
Even  her  diamonds — and  the  young  man  knew 
something  about  these  gems  —  must  be  of  con¬ 
siderable  value ;  and  yet  she  wore  them  care¬ 
lessly,  as  it  pleased  her  fancy.  She  had  precious 
old  laces,  too,  almost  worth  their  weight  in  dia* 
nonds,  —  laces  which  had  been  snatched  fronj 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


24/ 


altars  in  ancient  Spanish  cathedrals  during  the 
wars,  and  which  it  would  not  be  safe  to  leave  a 
duchess  alone  with  for  ten  minutes.  The  old 
house  was  fat  with  the  deposits  of  rich  genera* 
tions  which  had  gone  before.  The  famous  “  gold¬ 
en  ”  fire-set  was  a  purchase  of  one  of  the  family 
who  had  been  in  France  during  the  Revolution, 
and  must  have  come  from  a  princely  palace,  if 

not  from  one  of  the  roval  residences.  As  for 

%/ 

silver,  the  iron  closet  which  had  been  made  in  the 
dining-room  wall  was  running  over  with  it :  tea¬ 
kettles,  coffee-pots,  heavy-lidded  tankards,  chafing- 
dishes,  punch-bowls,  all  that  all  the  Dudleys  had 
ever  used,  from  the  caudle-cup  which  used  to  be 
handed  round  the  young  mother’s  chamber,  and 
the  porringer  from  which  children  scooped  their 
bread-and-milk  with  spoons  as  solid  as  ingots, 
to  that  ominous  vessel,  on  the  upper  shelf,  far 
back  in  the  jdark,  with  a  spout  like  a  slender 
italic  S,  out  of  which  the  sick  and  dying,  all 
along  the  last  century,  and  since,  had  taken  the 
last  drops  that  passed  their  lips.  Without  being 
much  of  a  scholar,  Dick  could  see  well  enough, 
too,  that  the  books  in  the  library  had  been  ordered 
from  the  great  London  houses,  whose  imprint 
they  bore,  by  persons  who  knew  what  was  best 
and  meant  to  have  it.  A  man  does  not  require 
much  learning  to  feel  pretty  sure,  when  he  takes 
one  of  those  solid,  smooth,  velvet-leaved  quartos, 
Bay  a  Baskerville  Addison,  for  instance,  bound  in 
*ed  morocco,  with  a  margin  of  gold  as  rich  as 


248 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


6^ 


(M~ 


the  embroidery  of  a  prince’s  collar,  as  Vandyeh 
drew  it,  —  he  need  not  know  much  to  feel  pretty 
sure  that  a  score  or  two  of  shelves  full  of  such 
books  mean  that  it  took  a  long  purse,  as  well 
as  a  literary  taste,  to  bring  them  together. 

To  all  these  attractions  the  mind  of  this 
thoughtful  young  gentleman  may  be  said  to  have 
been  fully  open.  He  did  not  disguise  from  him¬ 
self,  however,  that  there  were  a  number  of  draw- 
backs  in  the  way  of  his  becoming  established  as 
the  heir  of  the  Dudley  mansion-house  and  for¬ 
tune.  In  the  first  place,  Cousin  Elsie  was,  un¬ 
questionably,  very  piquant,  very  handsome,  game 
as  a  hawk,  and  hard  to  please,  which  made  her 
worth  trying  for.  But  then  there  was  something 
about  Cousin  Elsie,  —  (the  small,  white  scars 
began  stinging,  as  he  said  this  to  himself,  and  he 
pushed  his  sleeve  up  to  look  at  them,)  —  there 
was  something  about  Cousin  Elsie  he  couldn’t 
make  out.  What  was  the  matter  withAier  eyes, 
that  they  sucked  your_Iife  out  of  you  in  that 
strange  way  ?  What  did  she  always  wear  a 
necklace  for?  Had  she  some  such  love-token  on 
her  neck  as  the  old  Don’s  revolver  had  left  on 
his  ?  How  safe  would  anybody  feel  to  live  with 
ner  ?  Besides,  her  father  would  last  forever,  if 
ke  was  left  to  himself.  And  he  may  take  if 
into  his  head  to  marry  again.  That  would  be 
pleasant ! 

So  talked  Cousin  Bi  chard  to  himself,  in  the 
talin  of  the  night  and  in  the  tranquillity  of  his 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


249 


own  soul.  There  was  much  to  be  said  on  both 
sides.  It  was  a  balance  to  be  struck  after  ths 
two  columns  were  added  up.  He  struck  the 
balance,  and  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he 
would  fall  in  love  with  Elsie  Venner. 

The  intelligent  reader  will  not  confound  this 
matured  and  serious  intention  of  falling  in  love 
with  the  young  lady  with  that  mere  impulse  of 
the  moment  before  mentioned  as  an  instance  of 
making  love.  On  the  contrary,  the  moment  Mr, 
Richard  had  made  up  his  mind  that  he  should  fall 
in  love  with  Elsie,  he  began  to  be  more  reserved 
with  her,  and  to  try  to  make  friends  in  other 
quarters.  Sensible  men,  you  know,  care  very 
little  what  a  girl’s  present  fancy  is.  The  ques¬ 
tion  is  :  Who  manages  her,  and  how  can  you  get 
at  that  person  or  those  persons  !  Her  foolish 
little  sentiments  are  all  very  well  in  their  way; 
but  business  is  business,  and  we  can’t  stop  for 
such  trifles.  The  old  political  wire-pullers  never 
go  near  the  man  they  want  to  gain,  if  they  can 
help  it;  they  find  out  who  his  intimates  and 
managers  are,  and  work  through  them.  Always 
handle  any  positively  electrical  body,  whether  it 
\s  charged  with  passion  or  power,  with  some  non¬ 
conductor  between  you  and  it,  not  with  your 
riaked  hands,  —  The  abo^e  were  some  of  the 
young  gentleman’s  working  axioms  ;  and  he  pro¬ 
ceeded  to  act  in  accordance  with  them. 

He  began  by  paying  his  court  more  assiduously 
to  his  uncle.  It  was  not  very  nard  to  ingratiate 


*  / 
J>)C 

M** 


(AT 


/ 


250 


ELSIF  TENNER. 


himself  in  that  quarter;  for  his  manners  were  in« 
sinuating,  and  his  precocious  experience  of  life 
made  him  entertaining.  The  old  neglected  bil¬ 
liard-room  was  soon  put  in  order,  and  Dick,  who 
was  a  magnificent  player,  had  a  series  of  games 
with  his  uncle,  in  which,  singularly  enough,  he 
was  beaten,  though  his  antagonist  had  been  out 
of  play  for  years.  He  evinced  a  profound  interest 
in  the  family  history,  insisted  on  having  the  de¬ 
tails  of  its  early  alliances,  and  professed  a  great 
pride  in  it,  which  he  had  inherited  from  his  father, 
who,  though  he  had  allied  himself  with  the  daugh¬ 
ter  of  an  alien  race,  had  yet  chosen  one  with  the 
real  azure  blood  in  her  veins,  as  proud  as  if  she 
had  Castile  and  Aragon  for  her  dower  and  the 
Cid  for  her  grandpapa.  He  also  asked  a  great 
deal  of  advice,  such  as  inexperienced  young  per¬ 
sons  are  in  need  of,  and  listened  to  it  with  due 
reverence. 

It  is  not  very  strange  that  Uncle  Dudley  took 
a  kinder  view  of  his  nephew  than  the  Judge, 
who  thought  he  could  read  a  questionable  his¬ 
tory  in  his  face,  —  or  the  old  Doctor,  who  knew 
men’s  temperaments  and  organizations  pretty 
well,  and  had  his  prejudices  about  races,  and 
could  tell  an  old  sword-cut  and  a  bullet-mark 
in  two  seconds  from  a  scar  got  by  falling  against 
the  fender,  or  a  mark  left  by  king’s  evil.  He 
could  not  be  expected  to  share  our  own  preju¬ 
dices  ;  for  he  had  heard  nothing  of  the  wile 
vouth’s  adventures,  or  his  scamper  over  the  Pam 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


251 


pas  at  short  notice.  So,  then,  a  Richard  Venner 
Esquire,  guest  of  Dudley  Venner,  Esquire,  at  his 
elegant  mansion,”  prolonged  his  visit  until  his 
presence  became  something  like  a  matter  of  hab- 
it,  and  the  neighbors  began  to  think  that  the  fine 
Old  house  would  be  illuminated  befcre  long  for 
flugrand  marriage. 

He  had  done  pretty  well  with  the  father :  the 
next  thing  was  to  gain  over  the  nurse.  Old  So¬ 
phy  was  as  cunning. as  a  red  fox  or  a  gray  wood¬ 
chuck.  She  had  nothing  in  the  world  to  do  but 
to  watch  Elsie;  she  had  nothing  to  care  for  but 
this  girl  and  her  father.  She  had  never  liked  Dick 
too  well ;  for  he  used  to  make  faces  at  her  and 
tease  her  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  now  he  was  a 
man  there  was  something  about  him  — she  could 
not  tell  what  —  that  made  her  suspicious  of  him. 

It  was  no  small  matter  to  get  her  over  to  his  side. 

The  jet-black  Africans  know  that  gold  never  ^lvA 
looks  so  well  as  on  the  foil  of  their  dark  skins. 
Dick  found  in  his  trunk  a  string  of  gold  beads, 
such  as  are  manufactured  in  some  of  our  cities, 
which  he  had  brought  from  the  gold  region  of 
Chili,  —  so  he  said,  —  for  the  express  purpose  of 
giving  them  to  old  Sophy.  These  Africans,  too, 
have  a  perfect  passion  for  gay-colored  clothing* 
being  condemned  by  Nature  as  it  were,  to  a  per¬ 
petual  mourning-suit,  they  Idvc  to  enliven  it  with 
all  sorts  of  variegated  stuffs  of  sprightly  patterns, 
aflame  with  red  and  yellow.  The  considerate 
young  man  had  remembered  this,  too,  and  brought 
Home  for  Sophy  some  handkerchiefs  of  rainbow 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


hues,  which  had  been  strangely  overlooked  till 
now,  at  the  bottom  of  one  of  bis  trunks.  Old 
Sophy  took  his  gifts,  but  kept  her  black  eyes  open 
and  watched  every  movement  of  the  young  peo* 
pie  all  the  more  closely.  It  was  through  her  that 
the  father  had  always  known  most  of  the  actions 
and  tendencies  of  his  daughter. 

O 


V*- 


v  w 


•  A^* 


T 


»  L  (t* 
0U. 


t 


In  the  mean  time  the  strange  adventure  on  The 
Mountain  had  brought  the  young  master  into  new 
relations  with  Elsie.  She  had  led  him  out  of  dan¬ 
ger  ;  perhaps  saved  him  from  death  by  the  strange 
power  she  exerted.  He  was  grateful,  and  yet 
shuddered  at  the  recollection  of  the  whole  scene. 
In  his  dreams  he  was  pursued  by  the  glare  of  cold 
glittering  eyes,  —  whether  they  were  in  the  head 
of  a  woman  or  of  a  reptile  he  could  not  always 
tell,  the  images  had  so  run  together,  f  But  he 
could  not  help  seeing  that  the  eyes  of  the  young 
girl  had  been  often,  very  often,  turned  upon  him 
when  he  had  been  looking  away,  and  fell  as  his 
own  glance  met  them.  Helen  Darley  told  him 
very  plainly  that  this  girl  was  thinking  about  him 
more  than  about  her  book.  Dick  Venner  found 
she  was  getting  more  constant  in  her  attendance 
at  school.  He  learned,  on  inquiry,  that  there  was 
a  new  master,  a  handsome  young  man.  The 
handsome  young  man  would  not  have  liked  the 
look  that  came  over  Dick’s  face  when  he  heard 
this  fact  mentioned. 

Ill  short,  everything  was  getting  tangled  up 
together,  and  there  would  be  no  chance  of  disen¬ 
tangling  the  threads  in  this  chapter. 


KUB1E  YENNER. 


zJL 

953 


CHAPTER  XV. 

PHYSIOLOGICAL. 

Ip  Master  Bernard  felt  a  natural  gratitude  to 
his  young  pupil  for  saving  him  from  an  imminent 
peril,  he  was  in  a  state  of  infinite  perplexity  tc 
know  why  he  should  have  needed  such  aid.  He, 
an  active,  muscular,  courageous,  adventurous 
young  fellow,  with  a  stick  in  his  hand,  ready  to 
hold  down  the  Old  Serpent  himself,  if  he  had 
come  in  his  way,  to  stand  still,  staring  into  those 
two  eyes,  until  they  came  up  close  to  him,  and  v 
the  strange,  terrible  sound  seemed  to  freeze  him 
stiff  where  he  stood,  —  what  was  the  meaning  of 
it  ?  Again,  what  was  the  influence  this  girl  had 
seemingly  exerted,  under  which  the  venomous 
creature  had  collapsed  in  such  a  sudden  way  ? 

Whether  he  had  been  awake  or  dreaming  he  did 
not  feel  quite  sure.  He  knew  he  had  gone  up 
The  Mountain,  at  any  rate  ;  he  knew  he  had 
come  down  The  Mountain  with  the  girl  walking 
just  before  him;  —  there  was  no  forgetting  her 
figure,  as  she  walked  on  in  silence,  her  braided 
Jocks  falling  a  little,  for  want  of  the  lost  hair-pin 
perhaps,  and  looking  like  a  wreathing  coil  of  —  • 


ELSIE  VE3STHEK. 


‘  ^ 


preme  crowning  gift  of  abounding  Nature,  a  rush 
of  shining  black  hair,  which,  shaken  loose,  would 
cloud  her  all  round,  like  Godiva,  from  brow  to 
instep !  He  was  sure  he  had  sat  down  before  the 
fissure  or  cave.  He  was  sure  that  he  was  leu 
softly  away  from  the  place,  and  that  it  was  Elsie 
who  had  led  him.  There  was  the  hair-pin  to  show 
that  so  far  it  was  not  a  dream.  But  between 
these  recollections  came  a  strange  confusion ;  and 
the  more  the  master  thought,  the  more  he  was 
perplexed  to  know  whether  she  had  waked  him, 
sleeping,  as  he  sat  on  the  stone,  from  some  fright¬ 
ful  dream,  such  as  may  come  in  a  very  brief  slum¬ 
ber,  or  whether  she  had  bewitched  him  into  a 
trance  with  those  strange  eyes  of  hers,  or  whether 
it  was  all  true,  and  he  must  solve  its  problem  as 
he  best  might. 

There  was  another  recollection  connected  with 
this  mountain  adventure.  As  they  approached 
the  mansion-house,  they  met  a  young  man,  whom 
Mr.  Bernard  remembered  having  seen  once  at 
least  before,  and  whom  he  had  heard  of  as  a 
cousin  of  the  young  girl.  As  Cousin  Bichard 
Venner,  the  person  in  question,  passed  them,  he 
look  the  measure,  so  to  speak,  of  Mr.  Bernard, 
with  a  look  so  piercing,  so  exhausting,  so  prac¬ 
tised,  sc  profoundly  suspicious,  that  the  young 
master  felt  in  an  instant  that  he  had  an  enemy  in 
this  handsome  youth,  —  an  enemy,  too,  who  wai 
like  to  be  subtle  and  dangerous. 


(huLhcLyf^vv^viS  (3-  X- 
Ji/AXiAx-^-  /t^  tMJL  I'Ludry^'t-  ^ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


255 


Mr.  Bernard  had  made  up  his  mind,  that,  come 
fcdiat  might,  enemy  or  no  enemy,  live  or  die,  he 
Would  solve  the  mystery  of  Elsie  Venner,  sooner 
or  later.  He  was  not  a  man  to  be  frightened  out 
of  his  resolution  by  a  scowl,  or  a  stiletto,  or  any 
unknown  means  of  mischief,  of  which  a  whole 
armory  was  hinted  at  in  that  passing  look  Dick 
Venner  had  given  him.  Indeed,  like  most  adven¬ 
turous  young  persons,  he  found  a  kind  of  charm 
in  feeling  that  jthere  might  be  some  dangers  in  the 
way  of  his  investigations.  Some  rumors  which 
had  reached  him  about  the  supposed  suitor  of 
Elsie  Venner,  who  was  thought  to  be  a  desperate 
kind  of  fellow,  and  whom  some  believed  to  be  an 
unscrupulous  adventurer,  added  a  curious,  roman¬ 
tic  kind  of  interest  to  the  course  ofj^h^ysiological 
and  psychological  inquiries  he  was  about  insti¬ 
tuting. 

The  afternoon  on  The  Mountain  was  still  up¬ 
permost  in  his  mind.  Of  course  he  knew  the 
common  stories  about  fascination.  He  had  once" 
been  himself  an  eye-witness  of  the  charming  of  a 
small  bird  by  one  of  our  common  harmless  ser-> 
pents.  Whether  a  human  being  could  be  reached 
by  this  subtile  agency,  he  had  been  skeptical,  not¬ 
withstanding  the  mysterious  relation  generally  felt 
to  exist  between  man  and  this  creature,  “  cursed 
above  all  cattle  and,  above  every  beast  of  the 
field,”  —  a  relation  which  some  interpret  as  the 
fruit  of  the  curse,  and  others  hold  to  be  so  in- 
itinctive  that  this  animal  has  been  for  that  reason 


t 


256 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


Wvt 


C*V  ^ 


adopted  as  the  natural  symbol  of  evil.  There  was 
another  solution,  however,  supplied  him  by  his 
professional  reading.  The  curious  work  of  Mr. 
Braid  of  Manchester  had  made  him  familiar  with 
the  phenomena  of  a  state  allied  to  that  produced 
by  animal  magnetism,  and  called  by  that  writer 
by  the  name  of  hypnotism .  He  found,  by  refer¬ 
ring  to  his  note-book,  the  statement  was,  that,  by 
fixing  the  eyes  on  a  bright  object  so  placed  as  to 
produce  a  strain  upon  the  eyes  and  eyelids,  and  to 
maintain  a  steady  fixed  stare ,  there  comes  on  in  a 
few  seconds  a  very  singular  condition,  character¬ 
ized  by  muscular  rigidity  and  inability  to  move , 
with  a  strange  exaltation  of  most  of  the  senses ,  and 
generally  a  closure  of  the  eyelids,  —  this  condition 
being  followed  by  torpor . 

Now  this  statement  of  Mr.  Braid’s,  well  known 
to  the  scientific  world,  and  the  truth  of  which  had 
been  confirmed  by  Mr.  Bernard  in  certain  experi¬ 
ments  he  had  instituted,  as  it  has  been  by  many 
other  experimenters,  went  far  to  explain  the 
strange  impressions,  of  which,  waking  or  dream¬ 
ing,  he  had  certainly  been  the  subject.  His  ner¬ 
vous  system  had  been  in  a  high  state  of  exalta¬ 
tion  at  the  time.  He  remembered  how  the  little 
noises  that  made  rings  of  sound  in  the  silence  of 
the  woods,  like  pebbles  dropped  in  still  waters, 
had  reached  his  inner  consciousness.  He  remem¬ 
bered  that  singular  sensation  in  the  roots  of  the 
nair,  when  he  came  on  the  traces  of  the  girl’s 
presence,  reminding  him  of  a  line  in  a  certain 


257 


poem  which  he  haa  read  lately  with  a  new  and 
peculiar  interest.  He  even  recalled  a  curious  evi- 
dence  of  exalted  sensibility  and  irritability,  in  Ilia 
twitching  of  the  minute  muscles  of  the  internaj 
ear  at  every  unexpected  sound,  producing  an  odd 
little  snap  in  the  middle  of  the  head,  which  proved 
to  him  that  he  was  getting  very  nervous. 

The  next  thing  was  to  find  out  whether  it  were 
possible  that  the  venomous  creature’s  eyes  should 
have  served  the  purpose  of  Mr.  Braid’s  “  bright 
object  ”  held  very  close  to  the  person  experi¬ 
mented  on,  or  whether  they  had  any  special 
power  which  could  be  made  the  subject  of  ex¬ 
act  observation. 

For  this  purpose  Mr.  Bernard  considered  it  ne¬ 
cessary  to  get  a  live  crotalus  or  two  into  his  pos- 
session,  if  this  were  possible.  On  inquiry,  he 
found  that  there  was  a  certain  family  living  far 
up  the  mountain-side,  not  a  mile  from  the  ledge, 
the  members  of  which  were  said  to  have  taken 
these  creatures  occasionally,  and  not  to  be  in  any 
danger,  or  at  least  in  any  fear,  of  being  injured 
by  them.  He  applied  to  these  people,  and  offered 
a  reward  sufficient  to  set  them  at  work  to  cap¬ 
ture  some  of  these  animals,  if  such  a  thing  were 
possible. 

A  few  days  after  this,  a  dark,  gypsy-looking 
woman  presented  nerself  at  his  door.  She  held 
ap  her  apron  as  if  it  contained  something  pro 
cious  in  the  bag  she  made  with  it. 


VOL.  T. 


17 


jy\j  df jLA'  ^ 


£58 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


u  Y’ wanted  some  rattlers,”  said  the  woman 
%l  Here  they  be.” 

She  opened  her  apron  and  showed  a  coil  of 
rattlesnakes  lying  very  peaceably  in  its  fold 
They  lifted  their  heads  up,  as  if  they  wanted  to 
Bee  what  was  going  on,  but  showed  no  sign  oi 
anger. 

u  Are  you  crazy  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Bernard.  u  You’re 
dead  in  an  hour,  if  one  of  those  creatures  strikes 
you !  ” 

He  drew  back  a  little,  as  he  spoke  ;  it  might  be 
simple  disgust ;  it  might  be  fear ;  it  might  be 
what  we  call  antipathy,  which  is  different  from 
either,  and  which  will  sometimes  show  itself  in 
paleness,  and  even  faintness,  produced  by  objects 
perfectly  harmless  and  not  in  themselves  offensive 
to  anv  sense. 


“  Lord  bless  you,”  said  the  woman,  u  rattlers 
never  touches  our  folks.  I’d  jest  ’z  lieves  handle 
them  creaturs  as  so  many  striped  snakes.” 

So  saying,  she  put  their  heads  down  with  her 
hand,  and  packed  them  together  in  her  apron  as 
if  they  had  been  bits  of  cart-rope. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  never  heard  of  the  power,  or, 
at  least,  the  belief  in  the  possession  of  a  power 
by  certain  persons,  which  enables  them  to  handle 
these  frightful  reptiles  with  perfect  impunity 
The  fact,  however,  is  well  known  to  others,  and 
more  especially  to  ji  very  distinguished  Professoi 
m  one  of  the  leading  institutions  of  the  great 
city  of  the  land,  whose  experiences  in  the  neigh* 


259 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


borhood  of  Graylock,  as  he  will  doubtless  ,  inform 
the  curious,  were  very  much  like  those  of  the 
young  master. 

Mr.  Bernard  had  a  wired  cage  ready  for  hi  a 
formidable  captives,  and  studied  their  habits  and 
expression  with  a  strange  sort  of  interest.  What 
did  the  Creator  mean  to  signify,  when  he  made 
such  shapes  of  horror,  and,  as  if  he  had  doubly 

✓ 

cursed  this  envenomed  wretch,  had  set  a  mark 
upon  him  and  sent  him  forth,  the  Cain  of  the  V 
brotherhood  of  serpents  ?  It  was  a  very  curious 
fact  that  the  first  train  of  thoughts  Mr.  Bernard’s 
small  menagerie  suggested  to  him  was  the  grave, 
though  somewhat  worn,  subject  of  the  origin  of 
evil.  There  is  now  to  be  seen  in  a  tall  glass 
jar,  in  the  Museum  of  Comparative  Anatomy  at 
Cantabridge,  in  the  territory  of  the  Massachusetts, 
a  huge  crotalus ,  of  a  species  which  grows  to  more 
frightful  dimensions  than  our  own,  under  the  hot¬ 
ter  skies  of  South  America.  Look  at  it,  ye  who 
would  know  what  is  the  tolerance,  the  freedom 
from  prejudice,  which  can  suffer  such  an  incarna¬ 
tion  of  all  that  is  devilish  to  lie  unharmed  in  the 
cradle  of  Nature !  Learn,  too,  that  there  are 
many  things  in  this  world  which  we  are  warned 
to  shun,  and  are  even  suffered  to  slay,  if  need  be, 
but  which  we  must  not  hate,  unless  we  would 
hate  what  God  loves  and  cares  for. 

Whatever  fascination  the  creature  might  exercise 
in  his  native  haunts,  Mr.  Bernard  found  himself 
not  in  the  least  nervous  or  affected  in  any  way 


260 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


✓ 


A  9 


4 

a  <  $■ 

/  VJ 


! 


while  looking  at  his  caged  reptiles.  "When  then 
cage  was  shaken,  they  would  lift  their  heads  and 
spring  their  rattles  ;  but  the  sound  was  by  no 
means  so  formidable  to  listen  to  as  when  it  re¬ 
verberated  among  the  chasms  of  the  echoing 
rocks.  The  expression  of  the  creatures  waa 
watchful,  still,  grave,  passionless,  fate-like,  sug¬ 
gesting  a  cold  malignity  which  seemed  to  be  wait¬ 
ing  for  its  opportunity.  Their  awful,  deep-cut 
mouths  were  sternly  closed  over  the  long  hollow 
fangs  which  rested  their  roots  against  the  swollen 
poison-gland,  where  the  venom  had  been  hoard¬ 
ing  up  ever  since  the  last  stroke  had  emptied  it. 
They  never  winked,  for  ophidians  have  no  mov- 
able  eyelids,  but  kept  up  that  awful  fixed  stare 
which  made  the  two  unwinking"  gladiators  the 
survivors  of  twenty  pairs  matched  by  one  of  the 
Roman  Emperors,  as  Pliny  tells  us,  in  his  “  Nat¬ 
ural  History.”  Their  eyes  did  not  flash,  but  shone 
with  a  cold  still  light.  They  were  of  a  pale- 
golden  or  straw  color,  horrible  to  look  into,  with 
their  stony  calmness,  their  pitiless  indifference, 
hardly  enlivened  by  the  almost  imperceptible 
vertical  slit  of  the  pupil,  through  which  Death 
seemed  to  be  looking  out  like  the  archer  behind 
the  long  narrow  loop-hole  in  a  blank  turret-wall. 
On  the  whole,  the  caged  reptiles,  horrid  as  they 
weiu,  hardly  matched  his  recollections  of  what 
ne  had  seen  or  dreamed  he  saw  at  the  cavern. 
These  looked  dangerous  enough,  but  yet  quiet  • 
A.  treacherous  stillness,  however,  —  as  the  unfo? 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


26x 


fcunate  New  York  physician  found,  when  he  put 
his  foot  out  to  wake  up  the,  torpid  creature, 
and  instantly  the  fang  flashed  through  his  boot, 
carrying  the  poison  into  his  blood,  and  death 
with  it. 

Mr.  Bernard  kept  these  strange  creatures,  and 
watched  all  their  habits  with  a  natural  curiosity. 
In  any  collection  of  animals  the  venomous  beast3 
are  looked  at  with  the  greatest  interest,  just  as 
the  greatest  villains  are  most  run  after  by  the  un¬ 
known  public.  Nobody  troubles  himself  for  a 
common  striped  snake  or  a  petty  thief,  but  a  cobra 
or  a  wife-killer  is  a  centre  of  attraction  to  all  eyes. 
These  captives  did  very  little  to  earn  their  living, 
but,  on  the  other  hand,  their  living  was  not  expen¬ 
sive,  their  diet  being  nothing  but  air,  au  naturel . 
Months  and  months  these  creatures  will  live  and 
seem  to  thrive  well  enough,  as  any  showman  who 
has  them  in  his  menagerie  will  testify,  though  N 
they  never  touch  anything  to  eat  or  drink. 

In  the  mean  time  Mr.  Bernard  had  become  very 
curious  about  a  class  of  subjects  not  treated  of 
in  any  detail  in  those  text-books  accessible  in 
most  country-towns,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  more 
special  treatises,  and  especially  of  the  rare  and 
ancient  works  found  on  the  shelves  of  the  larger 
city-libraries.  He  was  on  a  visit  to  old  Dr.  Kit- 
tredge  one  day,  having  been  asked  by  him  to  call 
in  for  a  few  moments  as  soon  as  convenient. 
The  Doctor  smiled  good-humoredly  when  he  asked 
him  if  he  had  an  extensive  collection  of  medical, 
works. 


YUAaA^4-'-'  — ' 
['sCajx 0 S 

C ju^i' 


262 


ELSIE  VEKNEtt. 


“  Why,  no,”  said  the  old  Doctor,  41  I  haven’! 
got  a  great  many  printed  books  ;  and  what  1 
have  I  don’t  read  quite  as  often  as  I  might,  I’m 
afraid.  I  read  and  studied  in  the  time  of  it, 
when  I  was  in  the  midst  of  the  young  men  who 
were  all  at  work  with  their  books ;  but  it’s  a 
mighty  hard  matter,  when  you  go  off  alone  into 
the  country,  to  keep  up  with  all  that’s  going  on 
in  the  Societies  and  the  Colleges.  I’ll  tell  you, 
though,  Mr.  Langdon,  when  a  man  that’s  once 
started  right  lives  among  sick  folks  for  five-and- 
thirty  years,  as  I’ve  done,  if  he  hasn’t  got  a  library 
of  five-and-thirty  volumes  bound  up  in  his  head 
at  the  end  of  that  time,  he’d  better  stop  driving 
round  and  sell  his  horse  and  sulky.  I  know  the 
bigger  part  of  the  families  within  a  dozen  miles’ 
ride.  I  know  the  families  that  have  a  way  of 
living  through  everything,  and  I  know  the  other 
set  that  have  the  trick  of  dying  without  any  kind 
of  reason  for  it.  I  know  the  years  when  the 
fevers  and  dysenteries  are  in  earnest,  and  when 
they’re  only  making  believe.  I  know  the  folks 
that  think  they’re  dying  as  soon  as  they’re  sick, 
and  the  folks  that  never  find  out  they’re  sick  till 
they’re  dead.  I  don’t  want  to  undervalue  your 
science,  Mr.  Langdon.  There  are  things  I  never 
learned,  because  they  came  in  after  my  dav,  and 
I  am  very  glad  to  send  my  patients  to  those  that 
do  know  them,  when  I  am  at  fault ;  but  I  know 
these  people  about  here,  fathers  and  mothers,  and 
children  and  grandchildren,  so  as  all  the  scienc# 


263 


N_/  J 


\ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


& 


Ln  the  world  can’t  know  them,  without  it  takes 
time  about  it,  and  sees  them  grow  up  and  grow 
old,  and  how  the  wear  and  tear  of  life  comes  to 
them.  You  can’t  tell  a  horse  by  driving  him 
once,  Mr.  Langdon,  nor  a  patient  by  talking  half 
an  hour  with  him.” 

“  Do  you  know  much  about  the  Venner  farm 
ily?”  said  Mr.  Bernard,  in  a  natural  way  enough, 
the  Doctor’s  talk  having  suggested  the  question. 

The  Doctor  lifted  his  head  with  his  accustomed 
movement,  so  as  to  command  the  young  man 
through  his  spectacles. 

“  I  know  all  the  families  of  this  piace  and  its 
neighborhood,”  he  answered. 

“We  have  the  young  lady  studying  with  us  at 
the  Institute,”  said  Mr.  Bernard. 

“  I  know  it,”  the  Doctor  answered.  “  Is  she  a 
good  scholar  ?  ” 

All  this  time  the  Doctor’s  eyes  were  fixed  stead¬ 
ily  on  Mr.  Bernard,  looking  through  the  glasses. 

“  She  is  a  good  scholar  enough,  but  I  don’t 
know  what  to  make  of  her.  Sometimes  I  think 
she  is  a  little  out  of  her  head.  Her  father,  I  be¬ 
lieve,  is  sensible  enough  ; —  what  sort  of  a  woman 
was  her  mother,  Doctor? — I  suppose  of  course 
you  remember  all  about  ner  ?  ” 

“  Yes,  I  knew  her  mother.  She  was  a  very 
Lovely  young  woman.”  —  The  Doctor  put  his 
hand  to  his  forehead  and  drew  a  long  breath. — 
w  What  is  there  you  notice  out  of  the  way  about 
Elsie  Venner  ?  ” 


V 


264 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


11  A  good  many  things,”  the  master  answered 
u  She  shuns  all  the  other  girls.  She  is  getting  a 
strange  influence  over  my  fellow-teacher,  a  young 
lady,  —  you  know  Miss  Helen  Darley,  perhaps  ? 
1  am  afraid  thisj^irl  will  kill  her.  I  never  saw  or 
heard  of  anything  like  it,  in  prose  at  least ; — do  you 
remember  much  of  Coleridge’s  Poems,  Doctor  ?  ” 
The  good  old  Doctor  had  to  plead  a  negative. 

“  Well,  no  matter.  Elsie  would  have  been 
burned  for  a  witch  in  old  times.  I  have  seen 
the  girl  look  at  Miss  Darley  when  she  had  not 
the  least  idea  of  it,  and  all  at  once  I  would  see 
her  grow  pale  and  moist,  and  sigh,  and  move 
round  uneasily,  and  turn  towards  Elsie,  and  per¬ 
haps  get  up  and  go  to  her,  or  else  have  slight 
spasmodic  movements  that  looked  like  hysterics ; 
—  do  you  believe  in  the  evil-aye,  Doctor  ?  ” 

a  Mr.  Langdon,”  the  Doctor  said,  solemnly, 
w  there  are  strange  things  about  Elsie  Yenner, — 
very  strange  things.  This  was  what  I  wanted  to 
speak  to  you  about.  Let  me  advise  you  all  to  be 
very  patient  with  the  girl,  but  also  very  careful. 
Her  love  is  not  to  be  desired,  and”  —  he  spoke 
m  a  lower  tone  —  “  her  hate  is  to  be  dreaded 
Do  you  think  she  has  any  special  fancy  for  any 
body  else  in  the  school  besides  Miss  Darley  ?  ” 

Mr.  Bernard  could  not  stand  the  old  Doctor’s 
Bpectacled  eyes  without  betraying  a  little  of  the 
feeling  natural  to  a  young  man  to  whom  a  home 
question  involving  a  possible  sentiment  is  put 
suddenly. 


ELSIE  VENKER. 


265 


u  I  have  suspected,”  he  said,  —  “I  have  had  a 

Kind  of  feeling  —  that  she  -  Well,  come, 

Doctor,  —  I  don’t  know  that  there’s  any  use  in 
disguising  the  matter, —  I  have  thought  Elsie 
Venner  had  rather  a  fancy  for  somebody  else,  — 
I  mean  myself.” 

There  was  something  so  becoming  in  the  blush 
with  which  the  young  man  made  this  confession, 
and  so  manly,  too,  in  the  tone  with  which  he 
spoke,  so  remote  from  any  shallow  vanity,  such 
as  young  men  who  are  incapable  of  love  are  apt 
to  feel,  when  some ^JojQse^tendril  of  a  woman’s 
fancy  which  a  chance  wind  has  blown  against 
thcm-iwines  about  them  for  the  waxduiLanylhing 
better,  that  the  old  Doctor  looked  at  him  admir¬ 
ingly,  and  could  not  help  thinking  that  it  was  no 
wonder  any  young  girl  should  be  pleased  with  him. 

M  You  are  a  man  of  nerve,  Mr.  Langdon  ?  ”  said 
the  Doctor. 

“  I  thought  so  till  very  lately,”  he  replied.  w  I 
am  not  easily  frightened,  but  I  don’t  know  but 
I  might  be  bewitched  or  magnetized,  or  whatever 
it  is  when  one  is  tied  up  and  cannot  move.  I 
think  I  can  find  nerve  enough,  however,  if  there 
is  any  special  use  you  want  to  put  it  to.” 

“  Let  me  ask  you  one  more  question,  Mr 
Langdon.  Do  you  find  yourself  disposed  to  take 
a  special  interest  in  Elsie,  —  to  fall  in  love  with 
her,  in  a  word?  Pardon  me,  for  I  do  not  ask 
from  curiosity,  but  a  much  more  serious  motive.” 

“  Elsie  interests  me,”  said  tne  young  man,  “  in- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


L 


266 


1/ 


.  ‘  ^ 


■f/VlM^' 


rxtv^- 


V~ 


terests  me  strangely.  She  has  a  wildL  flavor^,  in 
her  character  which  is  wholly  different  from  that 
of  jany  human  creature  I  ever  saw*  She  has 
marks  of  genius,  —  poetic  or  dramatic,  —  I  hardly 
know  which.  She  read  a  passage  from  Keats's 
*  Lamia  ’  the  other  day,  in  the  school-room,  in 
such  a  way  that  I  declare  to  you  I  thought  some 
of  the  girls  would  faint  or  go  into  fits.  Miss  Dar- 
ley  got  up  and  left  the  room,  trembling  all  over. 
Then  I  pity  her,  she  is  so  lonely.  The  girls  are 
afraid  of  her,  and  she  seems  to  have  either  a  dis¬ 
like  or  a  fear  of  them.  They  have  all  sorts  of 
painful  stories  about  her.  They,  give  her  a  name 
which  no  human  creature  ought  to  bear.  They 

say  she  hides  a  mark  on . her  neck  by  always 

wearing  a  necklace.  She  is  very  graceful,  you 
know,  and  they  will  have  it  that  she  can  twist 
herself  into  all  sorts  of  shapes,  or  tie  herself  in  a 
knot,  if  she  wants  to.  There  is  not  one  of  them 
that  will  look  her  in  the  eyes.  I  pity  the  poor 
girl ;  but,  Doctor,  I  do  not  love  her.  I  would  risk 
my  life  for  her,  if  it  would  do  her  any  good,  but 
it  would  be  in  cold  blood.  If  her  hand  touches 
mine,  it  is  not  a  thrill  of  passion  I  feel  running 
/through  me,  but  a  very  different  emotion.  Oh, 
Doctor!  there  must  be  something  in  that  creat¬ 
ure’s  blood  which  has  killed  the  humanity  in  her. 
God  only  knows  the  cause  that  has  blighted  such 
a  soul  in  so. beautiful  a  body!  No,  Doctor,  I  do 
not  love  the  girl.” 

“  Mr.  Langdon,”  said  the  Doctor,  “  you  arc 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


267 


young,  and  I  am  old.  Let  me  talk  to  you  with 
an  old  man’s  privilege,  as  an  adviser.  You  have 
come  to  this  country-town  without  suspicion,  and 
you  are  moving  in  the  midst  of  perils.  There 
are  things  which  I  must  not  tell  you  now;  but  I 
may  warn  you.  Keep  your  eyes  open  and  your 
heart  shut.  If,  through  pitying  that  girl,  you 
ever  come  to  love  her,  you  are  lost.  If  you  deal 
carelessly  with  her,  beware !  This  is  not  all. 
There  are  other  eyes  on  you  beside  Elsie  Ven- 
ner’s.  —  Do  you  go  armed  ?  ” 

“  I  do  !  ”  said  Mr.  Bernard,  —  and  he  “  put  his 
hands  up  ”  in  the  shape  of  fists,  in  such  a  way  as 
to  show  that  he  was  master  of  the  natural  weap¬ 
ons  at  any  rate. 

The  Doctor  could  not  help  smiling.  But  his 
face  fell  in  an  instant. 

“  You  may  want  something  more  than  those 
tools  to  work  with.  Come  with  me  into  my 
sanctum.” 

The  Doctor  led  Mr.  Bernard  into  a  small  room 
opening  out  of  the  study.  It  was  a  place  such 
as  anybody  but  a  medical  man  would  shiver  to 
enter.  There  was  the  usual  tall  box  with  its 
bleached,  rattling  tenant;  there  were  jars  in  rows 
where  “  interesting 
^widows  and  heirs  in 
your.  u  preparation -jar  ”  is  the  true  li  monumentum 
tsre  perennius  ”  ;  there  were  various ^semipossibil- 
jties  of  minute  dimensions  and  unpromising  de* 
Vslopments ;  there  were  shining  instruments  of 


cases”  outlived  the  griefjof 
alcoholic  immortality,  —  foi 


868 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


evil  aspect,  and  grim  plates  on  the  walls,  and  on 
one  shelf  by  itseJf,  accursed  and  apart,  coiled  in 
a  long  cylinder  of  spirit,  a  huge  cro^atus,  rough- 
scaled,  flat-headed,  variegated  with  dull  bands, 
one  of  which  partially  encircled  the  neck  like  a 
collar,  —  an  awful  wretch  to  look  upon,  with 
murder  written  all  over  him  in  horrid  hieroglyph¬ 
ics.  Mr.  Bernard’s  look  was  riveted  on  this  creat¬ 
ure;  —  not  fascinated  certainly,  for  its  eyes  looked 
like  white  beads,  being  clouded  by  the  action  of 
the  spirits  in  which  it  had  been  long  kept,  —  but 
fixed  by  some  indefinite  sense  of  the  renewal  of 
a  previous  impression ;  —  everybody  knows  the 
feeling,  with  its  suggestion  of  some  past  state  of 
existence.  There  was  a  scrap  of  paper  on  the 
jar,  with  something  written  on  it.  He  was  reach¬ 
ing  up  to  read  it  when  the  Doctor  touched  him 
tightly. 

“  Look  here,  Mr  Langdon  !  ”  he  said,  with  a 
certain  vivacity  of  manner,  as  if  wishing  to  cah 
away  his  attention,  —  11  this  is  my  armory.” 

The  Doctor  threw  open  the  door  of  a  small 
cabinet,  where  were  disposed  in  artistic  patterns 
various  weapons  of  offence  and  defence, —  for  he 
was  a  virtuoso  in  his  way,  and  by  the  side  of  the 
implements  of  the  art  of  healing  had  pleased  him¬ 
self  with  displaying  a  collection  of  those  other 
instruments,  the  use  of  which  renders  the  first 
necessary. 

“  See  which  of  these  weapons  you  would  iik« 
T>est  to  carry  about  you,”  said  the  Doctor. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


269 


Mr.  Bernard  laughed,  and  looked  at  the  Doc¬ 
tor  as  if  he  half  doubted  whether  he  was  in 
earnest. 

“This  looks  dangerous  enough,”  he  said, — 
u  for  the  man  who  carries  it,  at  least.” 

He  took  down  one  of  the  prohibited  Spanish 
daggers  or  knives  which  a  traveller  may  occa¬ 
sionally  get  hold  of  and  smuggle  out  of  the 
country.  The  blade  was  broad,  trowel-like,  but 
the  point  drawn  out  several  inches,  so  as  to  look 
like  a  skewer. 

“  This  must  be  a  jealous  bull-fighter’s  weapon,” 
he  said,  and  put  it  bact/in  its  plp.ce. 

Then  he  took  down  an/  ancient-looking  brdad- 
bladed  dagger,  with  a  complex  aspect  about  it, 
as  if  it  had  some  kind  of  mechanism  connected 
with  it.  v 

u  Take  care !  ”  said  the  Doctor ;  “  there  is  a 
trick  to  that  dagger.” 

He  took  it  and  touched  a  spring.  The  dagger 
split  suddenly  into  three  blades,  as  when  one 
separates  the  forefinger  and  the  ring-finger  from 
the  middle  one.  The  outside  blades  were  sharp 
on  their  outer  edge.  The  stab  was  to  be  made 
with  the  dagger  shut,  then  the  spring  touched 
and  the  split  blades  withdrawn. 

Mr.  Bernard  replaced  it,  saying,  that  it  would 
liave  served  for  side-arm  to  old  Suwarrow,  who 
told  his  men  to  work  their  bayonets  back  and 
forward  when  they  pinned  a  Turk,  but  to 
wriggle  them  about  in  the  wound  when  the} 
stabbed  a  Frenchman. 


ELSIE  VENNEIi. 


T 


i  x.£v 


Wch* 


270 

Here,”  said  the  Doctor,  “  this  is  the  thing 
you  want.” 

He  took  down  a  much  more  modern  and  fa¬ 
miliar  implement,  —  a  small,  beautifully  finished 
revolver. 

“  I  want  you  to  carry  this,”  he  said ;  “  and 
more  than  that,  I  want  you  to  practise  with  it 
often,  as  for  amusement,  but  so  that  it  may  be 
seen  and  understood  that  you  are  apt  to  have  a 
pistol  about  you.  Pistol-shooting  is  pleasant 
sport  enough,  and  there  is  no  reason  why  you 
should  not  practise  it  like  other  young  fellows. 
And  now,”  the  Doctor  said,  “  I  have  one  other 
weapon  to  give  you.” 

He  took  a  small  piece  of  parchment  and  shook 
a  white  powder  into  it  from  one  of  his  medicine- 
jars.  The  jar  was  marked  with  the  name  of  a 
mineral  salt,  of  a  nature  to  have  been  serviceable 
in  case  of  sudden  illness  in  the  time_of  jhe  Bor- 
gias.  The  Doctor  folded  the  parchment  carefully 
and  marked  the  Latin  name  of  the  powder  upon 
it. 

“  Here,”  he  said,  handing  it  to  Mr.  Bernard,  — 
u  you  see  what  it  is,  and  you  know  what  service 
it  can  render.  Keep  these  two  protectors  about 
your  person  day  and  night ;  they  will  not  harm 
you,  and  you  may  want  one  or  the  other  or  both 
before  you  think  of  it.” 

Mr.  Bernard  thought  it  was  very  odd,  and  not 
very  old-gentlemanlike,  to  be  fitting  him  out  foT 
treason,  stratagem,  and  spoils,  in  this  way 


J 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


271 


N 

There  was  no  harm,  however,  in  carrying  a 
doctor’s  powder  in  his  pocket,  or  in  amusing 
himself  with  shooting  at  a  mark,  as  he  had  often 
done  before.  If  the  old  gentleman  had  these  fan- 

°  •  t 

cies,  it  was  as  well  to  humor  him.  So  he  thanked 
old  Doctor  Kittredge,  and  shook  his  hand  warmly 
as  he  left  him. 

u  The  fellow’s  hand  did  not  tremble,  nor  his 
color  change,”  the  Doctor  said,  as  he  watched 
him  walking  away.  “  He  is  one  of  the  right 


Bort” 


/ 


Ca4* 


JLu\ 


o 


A 


\ 
r 


272 


ELSIE  YENNER 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

EPISTOLARY. 

Mr.  Langdon  to  the  Professor . 

My  dear  Professor, — 

You  were  kind  enough  to  promise  me  that  you 
would  assist  me  in  any  professional  or  scientific 
investigations  in  which  I  might  become  engaged 
I  have  of  late  become  deeply  interested  in  a  class 
of  subjects  which  present  peculiar  difficulty,  and 
I  must  exercise  the  privilege  of  questioning  you 
on  some  points  upon  which  I  desire  information 
I  cannot  otherwise  obtain.  I  would  not  trouble 
you,  if  I  could  find  any  person  or  books  compe^ 
tent  to  enlighten  me  on  some  of  these  singula^ 
matters  which  have  so  excited  me.  The  leading 
doctor  here  is  a  shrewd,  sensible  man,  but  not 
versed  in  the  curiosities  of  medical  literature. 

I  proceed,  with  your  leave,  to  ask  a  considera* 
ble  number  of  questions,  —  hoping  to  get  answers 
to  some  of  them,  at  least. 

Is  there  any  evidence  that  human  beings  can 
be  infected  or  wrought  upon  by  poisons,  or  other¬ 
wise,  so  that  they  shall  manifest  any  of  the  pecu- 
iarities  belonging  to  beings  of  a  lower  nature  * 


J 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


273 


Can  such  peculiarities  be  transmitted  by  inheri 
tance?  Is  there  anything  to  countenance  the 
stories,  long  and  widely  current,  about  the  “  evil 
eye  ”  ?  or  is  it  a  mere  fancy  that  such  a  powei 
belongs  to  any  human  being?  Have  you  any 
personal  experience  as  to  the  power  of  fasci • - 
nation  said  to  be  exercised  by  certain  animals  ? 
What  can  you  make  of  those  circumstantial 
statements  we  have  seen  in  the  papers,  of  chil¬ 
dren  forming  mysterious  friendships  with  ophid¬ 
ians  of  different  species,  sharing  their  food  with 
them,  and  seeming  to  be- under  some  subtile  in^ 
fluence  exercised  by  those  creatures  ?  Have  ypii 
read,  critically,  Coleridge’s  £oem  of  “  Christabel,” 
and  Keats’s  “  Lamia  ”  ?  If  so,  can  you  under¬ 
stand  them,  or  find  any  physiological  foundation 
for  the  story  of  either  ? 

There  is  another  set  of  questions  of  a  different 
nature  I  should  like  to  ask,  but  it  is  hardly  fair  to 
put  so  many  on  a  single  sheet.  There  is  one, 
however,  you  must  answer.  Do  you  think  there 
may  be  predispositions,  inherited  or  ingrafted, 
but  at  any  rate  constitutional,  which  shall  take 
out  certain  apparently  voluntary  determinations 
from  the  control  of  the  will,  and  leave  them  as 
free  from  moral  responsibility  as  the  instincts  of 
the  lewer  animals  ?  Do  you  not  think  there  may 
be  a  crime  which  is  not  a  sin  ? 

Pardon  me,  my  dear  Sir,  for  troubling  you  witn 
such  a  list  of  notes  of  interrogation.  There  are 
eome  very  strange  tilings  going  on  here  in  this 

VOL.  L  18 


274 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


place,  country-town  as  it  is.  Country-life  is  apt 
to  be  dull ;  but  when  it  once  gets  going,  it  beats 
the  city  hollow,  because  it  gives  its  whole  mind 
to  what  it  is  about.  These  rural  sinners  make 
teuible  work  with  the  middle  of  the  Decalosue, 
when  they  get  started.  However,  I  hope  I  shall 
live  through  my  year’s  school-keeping  without 
catastrophes,  though  there  are  queer  doings  about 
me  which  puzzle  me  and  might  scare  some  peo¬ 
ple.  If  anything  should  happen,  you  will  be  one 
of  the  first  to  hear  of  it,  no  doubt.  But  I  trust 
not  to  help  out  the  editors  of  the  “  Rockland 
Weekly  Universe”  with  an  obituary  of  the  late 
lamented,  who  signed  himself  in  life 

Your  friend  and  pupil, 

Bernard  C.  Langdon. 

The  Professor  to  Mr.  Langdon. 

My  dear  Mr.  Langdon,  — 

I  do  not  wonder  that  you  find  no  answer  from 
your  country  friends  to  the  curious  questions  you 
put.  They  belong  to  that  middle  region  between 
science  and  poetry  which  sensible  men,  as  they 
are  called,  are  very  shy  of  meddling  with.  Some 
people  think  that  truth  and  gold  are  always  to  be 
washed  for;  but  the  wiser  sort  are  of  opinion, 
that,  unless  there  are  so  many  grains  to  the  peck 
of  sand  or  nonsense  respectively,  it  does  not  pay 
to  wTash  for  either,  so  long  as  one  can  find  any 
thing  else  to  do.  I  don’t  doubt  there  is  some 


J 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


275 


truth  in  the  phenomena  of  animal  magnetism, 
for  instance  ;  but  when  you  ask  me  to  cradle 
for  it,  I  tell  you  that  the  hysteric  girls  cheat  so, 
and  the  professionals  are  such  a  set  of  pickpock¬ 
ets,  that  I  can  do  something  better  than  hunt  foi 
the  grains  of  truth  among  their  tricks  and  lies., 
Do  youSremember  wiiat  1  used  to  say  in  my 
lectures? —  or  were  you  asleep  just  then,  or  cut¬ 
ting  your  initials  on  the  rail?  (You  see  I  can 
ask  questions,  my  young  friend.)  Leverage  is 
everything,  —  was  what  I  used  to  say ;  —  don’t 
begin  to  pry  till  you  have  ^got  the  Jong  arm  on 
your  side.  ^ 

To  please  you,  and  satisfy  your  doubts  as  far 
as  possible,  I  have  looked  into  the  old  books,  — 
into  Schenckius  and  Turner  and  Kenelm  Digby 
and  the  rest,  where  I  have  found  plenty  of  curious 
stories  which  you  must  take  for  what  they  are 
Worth. 

Your  first  question  I  can  answer  in  the  affirma¬ 
tive  upon  pretty  good  authority.  Mizaldus  tells, 
in  his  “  Memorabilia,”  the  well-known  story  of  the 
girl  fed  on  poisons,  who  was  sent  by  the  king  of 
the  Indies  to  Alexander  the  Great.  “  When 
Aristotle  saw  her  eyes  sparkling  and  snapping  like 
Jiose  of  serpents ,  he  said,  c  Look  out  for  yourself, 
Alexander!  this  is  a  dangerous  companion  for 
you !  ’  ”  — and  sure  enough,  the  young  lady  proved 
io  be  a  very  unsafe  person  to  her  friends.  Carda- 
nus  gets  a  story  from  Avicenna,  of  a  certain  man 
Oit  by  a  serpent,  who  recovered  of  his  bite,  the 


276 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


snake  dying  therefrom.  This  man  afterwards  hac 
a  daughter  whom  venomous  serpents  could  not 
harm,  though  she  had  a  fatal  power  over  them . 

I  suppose  you  may  remember  the  statements  of 
old  authors  about  lycanthropy ,  the  disease  in  which 
men  took  on  the  nature  and  aspect  of  wolves. 
Aetius  and  Paulus,  both  men  of  authority,  de¬ 
scribe  it.  Altomaris  gives  a  horrid  case ;  and 
Fincelius  mentions  one  occurring  as  late  as  1541, 
the  subject  of  which  was  captured,  still  insisting 
that  he  was  a  ivolf  only  that  the  hair  of  his  hide 
was  turned  in!  Versipelles ,  it  may  be  remembered, 
was  the  Latin  name  for  these  “  were- wolves.” 

As  for  the  cases  where  rabid  persons  have 
barked  and  bit  like  dogs,  there  are  plenty  of  such 
on  record. 

More  singular,  or  at  least  more  rare,  is  the  ac¬ 
count  given  by  Andreas  Baccius,  of  a  man  who 
was  struck  in  the  hand  by  a  cock,  with  his  beak, 
and  who  died  on  the  third  day  thereafter,  looking 
for  all  the  world  like  a  fighting-cock ,  to  the  great 
horror  of  the  spectators. 

As  to  impressions  transmitted  at  a  very  early 
period  of  existence ,  every  one  knows  the  story  of 
King  James’s  fear  of  a  naked  sword,  and  the  wa 
it  is  accounted  for.  Sir  Kenelm  Digby  says,  — 
11  I  remember  when  he  dubbed  me  Knight,  in  the 
ceremony  of  putting  the  point  of  a  naked  sword 
upon  my  shoulder,  he  could  not  endure  to  look 
upon  it,  but  turned  his  face  another  way  inso¬ 
much,  that,  in  lieu  of  touching  m)  shoulder,  he 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


27? 


had  almost  thrust  the  point  into  my  eyes,  had 


not  the  Duke  of  Buckingham  guided  his  hand 
aright.”  It  is  he,  too,  who  tells  the  story  of  the 
Mulberry  mark  upon  the  neck  of  a  certain  lady  of 
high  condition,  which  “  every  year,  in  mulberry 
season,  did  swell,  grow  big,  and  itch.”  And  Gaf- 
farel  mentions  the  case  of  a  girl  born  with  the 
figure  of  a  fish  on  one  of  her  limbs,  of  which  the 
wonder  was,  that,  when  the  girl  did  eat  fish,  this 
mark  put  her  to  sensible  pain.  But  there  is  no 
end  to  cases  of  this  kind,  and  I  could  give  some 
of  recent  date,  if  necessary,  lending  a  certaii^ 
plausibility  at  least  to  the  doctrine  of  transmitted 
impressions. 

I  never  saw  a  distinct  case  of  evil  eye ,  though  I  ^ 
have  seen  eyes  so  bad  that  they  might  produce 
strange  effects  on  very  sensitive  natures.  But  the 
belief  in  it  under  various  names,  fascination,  jet -  -/ 
tatura ,  etc.,  is  so  permanent  and  universal,  from 
Egypt  to  Italy,  and  from  the  days  of  Solomon  to 
those  of  Ferdinand  of  Naples,  that  there  must  be 
some  peculiarity ,  to  say  the  least,  on  which  the 
opinion  is  based.  There  is  very  strong  evidence 
that  some  such  power  is  exercised  by  certain  of 
the  lower  animals.  Thus,  it  is  stated  on  good 


authority  that  “  almost  every  animal  becomes 
panic-struck  at  fne  sight  of  the  rattlesnake ,  and 
seems  at  once  deprived  of  the  power  of  mo¬ 
tion,  or  the  exercise  of  its  usual  instinct  of  self- 
sroservation.”  Other  serpents  seem  to  share  thi3 
sower  of  fascination,  as  the  Cobra  and  the  Bu- 


£78  ELSIE  VENKEE. 

cephalus  Capensis.  Some  think  that  it  is  nothing 
but  fright ;  others  attribute  it  to  the 

“  strange  powers  that  lie 
Withir.  the  magic  circle  of  the  eye,”  — 

as  Churchill  said,  speaking  of  Garrick. 

You  ask  me  about  those  mysterious  and  fright¬ 
ful  intimacies  between  children  and  serpents,  of 
which  so  many  instances  have  been  recorded.  I 
am  sure  I  cannot  tell  what  to  make  of  them.  I 
have  seen  several  such  accounts  in  recent  papers, 
but  here  is  one  published  in  the  seventeenth  cen¬ 
tury,  which  is  as  striking  as  any  of  the  more  mod¬ 
ern  ones  :  — 

“  Mr.  Herbert  Jones  of  Monmouth ,  when  he  was 
a  little  Boy,  was  used  to  eat  his  Milk  in  a  Gar¬ 
den  in  the  Morning,  and  was  no  sooner  there,  but 
a  large  Snake  always  came,  and  eat  out  of  the 
Dish  with  him,  and  did  so  for  a  considerable  time, 
till  one  Morning,  he  striking  the  Snake  on  the 
Head,  it  hissed  at  him.  Upon  which  he  told  his 
Mother  that  the  Baby  (for  so  he  call’d  it)  cry’d 
Hiss  at  him.  His  Mother  had  it  kill’d,  which  oc¬ 
casioned  him  a  great  Fit  of  Sickness ,  and  ’twas 
thought  would  have  dy’d,  but  did  recover.” 

There  wa&  likewise  one  “  William  Writtle ,  con- 
dsmned  at  Maidston  Assizes  for  a  double  murder 
told  a  Minister  that  was  with  him  after  he  was 
condemned,  that  his  mother  told  him,  that  when 
he  was  a  Child,  (here  crept  always  to  him  a 
Snake,  wherever  she  laid  him.  Sometimes  sh$ 


J 


279 


ELSIE  VENDER. 

would  convey  him  up  Stairs,  and  leave  him  novel 
bo  little,  she  should  be  sure  to  find  a  Snake  in  the 
Cradle  with  him,  but  never  perceived  it  did  him 
any  harm.” 

One  of  the  most  striking  alleged  facts  con¬ 
nected  with  the  mysterious  relation  existing  be¬ 
tween  the  serpent  and  the  human  species  is  the 
influence  which  the  poison  of  the  Crotalus ,  taken 
‘internally,  seemed  to  produce  over  the  moral  fac¬ 
ulties ,  in  the  experiments  instituted'by  Dr.  Hering  u 
at  Surinam.  There  is  something  frightful  in  the 
disposition  of  certain  ophidians,  as  the  whip- 
snake,  which  darts  at  the  eyes  of  cattle  without 
any  apparent  provocation  or  other  motive.  It  is 
natural  enough  that  the  evil  prin ciple  should  have 
been  represented  in  the  form  of  a  serpent,  but  it 
is  strange  to  think  of  introducing  it  into  a  human 
being  like  cow-pox  by  vaccination. 

You  know  all  about  the  Psylli ,  or  ancient  ser¬ 
pent-tamers,  I  suppose.  Savary  gives  an  account 
of  the  modern  serpent-tamers  in  his  44  Letters  on 
Egypt.”  These  modern  jugglers  are  in  the  habit 
of  making  the  venomous  Naja  counterfeit  death, 
lying  out  straight  and  stiff,  changing  it  into  a 
rod ,  as  the  ancient  magicians  did  with  their  ser¬ 
pents,  (probably  the  same  animal,)  in  the  time  of 
Moses. 

I  am  afraid  I  cannot  throw  much  light  on 
4  uhristabel  ”  or  44  Lamia  ”  by  any  criticism  I  can 
offer.  Geraldine,  in  the  former,  seems  to  be  sim* 
oiy  a  malignant  witch-' woman,  with  the  evil  eye 


280 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


but  with  no  absolute  ophidian  relationship.  La¬ 
mia  is  a  serpent  transformed  by  magic  into  a 
Woman.  The  idea  of  both  is  mythological,  and 
not  in  any  sense  physiological.  Some  women 
unquestionably  suggest  the  image  of  serpents* 
men  rarely  or  never.  I  have  been  struck,  like 
many  others,  with  the  ophidian  head  and  eye  of 
/  the  famous  Rachel. 

Your  question  about  inherited  predispositions, 
as  limiting  the  sphere  of  the  will,  and,  conse¬ 
quently,  of  moral  accountability,  opens  a  very 
wide  range  of  speculation.  I  can  give  you  only 
a  brief  abstract  of  my  own  opinions  on  this  deli¬ 
cate  and  difficult  subject.  Crime  and  sin,  being 
/  the  preserves  of  two  great  organized  interests, 
have  been  guarded  against  all  reforming  poachers 
with  as  great  jealousy  as  the  Royal  Forests.  It 
is  so  easy  to  hang  a  troublesome  fellow !  It  is  so 
much  simpler  to  consign  a  soul  to  perdition,  or 
say  masses,  for  money,  to  save  it,  than  to  take 
ys  the  blame  on  ourselves  for  letting  it  grow  up  in 
neglect  and  run  to  ruin  for  want  of  humanizing 
influences!  They  hung  poor,  crazy  Bellingham 
for  shooting  Mr.  Perceval.  The  ordinary  of  New¬ 
gate  preached  to  women  who  were  to  swing  at 
Tyburn  for  a  petty  theft  as  if  they  were  worse 
than  other  people, — just  as  though  he  would  not 
have  been  a  pickpocket  or  shoplifter,  himself,  if 
he  had  been  born  in  a  den  of  thieves  and  bred  up 
to  steal  or  starve !  The  English  law  never  began 
fc)  get  hold  of  the  idea  that  a  crime  was  not  nece& 


ELSIE  VENDER.  ‘281 

/  tV 

garily  a  sin,  till  Hadfield,  who  thought  he  was  the 
Saviour  of  mankind,  was  tried  for  shooting  at 
George  the  Third; — lucky  for  him  that  he  did 
not  hit  his  Majesty ! 

It  is  very  singular  that  we  recognize  all  the 
bodily  defects  that  unfit  a  man  for  military  ser» 
vice,  and  all  the  intellectual  ones  that  limit  his 
range  of  thought,  but  always  talk  at  him  as  if  al)  t 
his  moral  powers  were  perfect.  I  suppose  we 
must  punish  evil-doers  as  we  extirpate  vermin; 
but  I  don’t  know  that  we  have  any  more  right  to 
judge  them  than  we  have  ^o  judge-rats  and  mice, 
which  are  just  as  good  as  cats  and  weasels,  though 
we  think  it  necessary  to  treat  them  as  criminals. 

The  limitations  of  human  responsibility  have 
never  been  properly  studied,  unless  it  be  by  the 
phrenologists.  You  know  from  my  lectures  that 
I  consider  phrenology,  as  taught,  a  pseudo-science, 
and  not  a  branch  of  positive  knowledge;  but,  lor 
all  that,  we  owe  it  an  immense  debt.  It  has 
melted  the  world’s  conscience  in  its  crucible,  and 
cast  it  in  a  new  mould,  with  features  less  like 
those  of  Moloch  and  more  like  those  of  humanity. 

If  it  has  failed  to  demonstrate  its  system  of  spe¬ 
cial  correspondences,  it  has  proved  that  there  are 
fixed  relations  between  organization  and  mind  ✓ 
and  character.  It_has  brought  out  that  great 
doctrine  of  moral  insanity,  which  has  done  more  v 
to  make  men  charitable  and  soften  legal  and  the¬ 
ological  barbarism  than  any  one  doctrine  that  1 
can  think  of  since  the  message  of  peace  and 
Kood-will  to  men. 


282 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


./ 


✓ 


Automatic  action  in  the  moral  world  ;  the  reflex 
movement  which  seems  to  be  self-determination, 
and  has  been  hanged  and  howled  at  as  such 
(metaphorically)  for  nobody  knows  how  many 
centuries :  until  somebody  shall  study  this  as 
Marshall  Hall  has  studied  reflex  nervous  action 
in  the  bodily  system,  I  would  not  give  much  for 
men’s  judgments  of  each  others’  characters.  Shut 
up  the  robber  and  the  defaulter,  we  must.  But 
what  if  your  oldest  boy  had  been  stolen  from  his 
cradle  and  bred  in  a  North-Street  cellar  ?  What 
if  you  are  drinking  a  little  too  much  wine  and 
smoking  a  little  too  much  tobacco,  and  your  son 
takes  after  you,  and  so  your  poor  grandson’s  brain 
being  a  little  injured  in  physical  texture,  he  loses 
the  fine  moral  sense  on  which  you  pride  yourself, 
and  doesn’t  see  the  difference  between  signing 
another  man’s  name  to  a  draft  and  his  own  ? 

I  suppose  the  study  of  automatic  action  in  the 
moral  world  (you  see  what  I  mean  through  the 
apparent  contradiction  of  terms)  may  be  a  danger¬ 
ous  one  in  the  view  of  many  people.  It  is  liable 
to  abuse,  no  doubt.  People  are  always  glad  to 
get  hold  of  anything  which  limits  their  responsi¬ 
bility.  But  remember  that  our  moral  estimates 
come  down  to  us  from  ancestors  who  hanged 
children  for  stealing  forty  shillings’  worth,  and 
sent  their  souls  to  perdition  for  the  sin  of  being 
born,  —  who  punished  the  unfortunate  families 
of  suicides,  and  in  their  eagerness  for  justice  exe¬ 
cuted  one  innocent  person  every  three  years,  oc 
tfie  average,  as  Sir  James  Mackintosh  tells  us 


J 


ELSIE  VENNER 


283 


I  do  not  know  in  what  shape  the  practical 
question  may  present  itself  to  you ;  but  I  will 
tell  you  my  rule  in  life,  and  I  think  you  will  find 
it  a  good  one.  Treat  bad  men  exactly  as  if  they 
were  insane .  They  are  in- sane,  out  of  health, 
morally.  Reason,  which  is  food  to  sound  minds, 
is  not  tolerated,  still  less  assimilated,  unless  ad¬ 
ministered  with  the  greatest  caution  ;  perhaps,  not 
at  all.  Avoid  collision  with  them,  so  far  as  you 
honorably  can;  keep  your  temper,  if  you  can, — 
for  one  angry  man  is  as  good  as  another ;  restrain 
them  from  violence,  promj^ly,  completely,  and 
with  the  least  possible  injury,  just  as  in  the  case 
of  maniacs, — and  when  you  have  got  rid  of  them, 
or  got  them  tied  hand  and  foot  so  that  they  can 
do  no  mischief,  sit  down  and  contemplate  them 
charitably,  remembering  that  nine  tenths  of  their 
perversity  comes  from  outside  influences,  drunken 
ancestors,  abuse  in  childhood,  bad  company,  from 
which  you  have  happily  been  preserved,  and  for 
some  of  which  you,  as  a  member  of  society,  may 
be  fractionally  responsible.  I  think  also  that  there 
are  special  influences  which  work  in  the  blood  like 
ferments ,  and  I  have  a  suspicion  that  some  of 
those  curious  old  stories  I  cited  may  have  more 
recent  parallels.  Have  you  ever  met  with  any 
cases  which  admitted  of  a  solution  like  that  which 
I  have  mentioned  ? 

Yours  very  truly, 


284 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Bernard  Langdon  to  Philip  Staples . 

My  dear  Philip, — 

I  have  been  for  some  months  established  in 
this  place,  turning  the  main  crank  of  the  machin¬ 
ery  for  the  manufactory  of  accomplishments 
superintended  by,  or  rather  worked  to  the  profit 
of,  a  certain  Mr.  Silas  Peckham.  He  is  a  poor 
wretch,  with  a  little  thin  fishy  blood  in  his  body, 
lean  and  flat,  long-armed  and  large-handed,  thick- 
jointed  and  thin-muscled,  —  you  know  those  un¬ 
wholesome,  weak-eyed,  half-fed  creatures,  that 
look  not  fit  to  be  round  among  live  folks,  and 
fet  not  quite  dead  enough  to  bury.  If  you  ever 
dear  of  my  being  in  court  to  answer  to  a  charge 
of  assault  and  battery,  you  may  guess  that  I 
lave  been  giving  him  a  thrashing  to  settle  off  old 
scores ;  for  he  is  a  tyrant,  and  has  come  pretty 
near  killing  his  principal  lady-assistant  with  over¬ 
working  her  and  keeping  her  out  of  all  decent 
privileges. 

Helen  Darley  is  this  lady’s  name, — twenty-two 
or  -three  years  old,  I  should  think,  —  a  very  sweet 
pale  woman, —  daughter  of  the  usual  country 
clergyman,  — thrown  on  her  own  resources  from 
an  early  age,  and  the  rest :  a  common  story,  but 
an  uncommon  person,  —  very.  All  conscience  and 
sensibility,  I  should  say,  —  a  cruel  worker, —  no 
kind  of  regard  for  herself, . —  seems  as  fragile  anc 
lupple  as  a  young  willow-shoot,  but  try  her  am 


» 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


285 


yon  find  she  has  the  spring  in  her  of  a  steel  cross¬ 
bow.  I  am  glad  I  happened  to  come  to  this 
place,  if  :t  were  only  for  her  sake.  I  have  saved  V 
that  girl’s  life  ;  I  am  as  sure  of  it  as  if  I  had  pulled 
her  out  of  the  fire  or  water. 

Of  course  I’m  in  love  with  her,  you  say,  —  we 
always  love  those  whom  we  have  benefited— 
u  saved  her  life,  —  her  love  was  the  reward  of  his 
devotion,”  etc.,  etc.,  as  in  a  regular  set  novel.  In 
love,  Philip?  Well,  about  that,  —  I  love  Helen  ^ 
Parley  —  very  much:  there  is  hardly  anybody  I 
love  so  well.  What  a  i^oble  creature  she  isi 
One  of  those  that  just  go  right  on,  do  their  owfi 
work  and  everybody  else’s,  killing  themselves  inch 
by  inch  without  ever  thinking  about  it,  —  singing 
and  dancing  at  their  toil  when  they  begin,  worn 
and  saddened  after  a  while,  but  pressing  steadily 
on,  tottering  by-and-by,  and  catching  at  the  xail 
by  the  way-side  to  help  them  lift  one  foot  before 
the  other,  and  at  last  falling,  face  down,,  arms  ^ 
stretched  forward - 

Philip,  my  boy,  do  you  know  I  am  the  sort 
of  man  that  locks  his  door  sometimes  and  cries 
his  heart  out  of  his  eyes, — that  can  sob  like  a 
woman  and  not  be  ashamed  of  it?  I  come  of 
fighting-blood  on  one  side,  you  know ;  I  think  I 
could  be  savage  on  occasion.  But  I  am  tender 

more  and  more  tender  as  I  come  into  my  ful¬ 
ness  of  manhood.  I  don’t  like  to  strike  a  man, 
(laugh,  if  you  like,  —  I  know  I  hit  hard  when  1 
do  strike,)  —  but  what  I  can’t  stand  is  the  sight 


p- 


4 


286 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


of  these  poor,  patient,  toiling  women,  who  nevei 
find  out  in  this  life  how  good  they  are,  and  nevei 
know  what  it  is  to  be  told  they  are  angels  while 
they  still  wear  the  pleasing  incumbrances  of  hu¬ 
manity.  I  don’t  know  what  to  make  of  these 
cases.  To  think  that  a  woman  is  never  to  be 
a  woman  again,  whatever  she  may  come  to  as 
an  unsexed  angel,  —  and  that  she  should  die 
unloved !  Why  does  not  somebody  come  and 
carry  off  this  noble  woman,  waiting  here  all  ready 
to  make  a  man  happy  ?  Philip,  do  you  know  the 
pathos  there  is  in  the  eyes  of  unsought  women, 
oppressed  with  the  burden  of  an  inner  life  un¬ 
shared  ?  I  can  see  into  them  now  as  I  could  not 
in  those  earlier  days.  I  sometimes  think  their 
pupils  dilate  on  purpose  to  let  my  consciousness 
glide  through  them  ;  indeed,  I  dread  them,  I  come 
so  close  to  the  nerve  of  the  soul  itself  in  these 
momentary  intimacies.  You  used  to  tell  me  I 
was  a  Turk,  —  that  my  heart  was  full  of  pigeon¬ 
holes,  with  accommodations  inside  for  a  whole 
flock  of  doves.  I  don’t  know  but  I  am  still  as 
Youngish  as  ever  in  my  ways,  —  Brigham- 
Youngish,  I  mean;  at  any  rate,  I  always  want 
fo  give  a  little  love  to  all  the  poor  things  that 
cannot  have  a  whole  man  to  themselves.  If  they 
would  only  be  contented  with  a  little ! 

Here  now  are  two  girls  in  this  school  where  J 
am  teaching.  One  of  them,  Rosa  M.,  is  not 
more  than  sixteen  years  old,  I  think  they  say 
but  Nature  has  forced  her  into  a  tropical  luxuri 


ELSIE  VENKER. 


287 


ance  of  beauty,  as  if  it  were  July  with  her,  in- 
Btead  of  May.  I  suppose  it  is  all  natural  enough 
that  this  girl  should  like  a  young  man’s  attention, 
even  if  he  were  a  grave  school-master;  but  the 
eloquence  of  this  young  thing’s  look  is  unmis» 
takable,  —  and  yet  she  does  not  know  the  lan¬ 
guage  it  is  talking,  —  they  none  of  them  do;  and 
there  is  where  a  good  many  poor  creatures  of  our 
good-for-nothing  sex  are  mistaken.  There  is  no 
danger  of  my  being  rash,  but  I  think  this  girl  ^ 
will  cost  somebody  his  life  yet.  She  is  one  of 
those  women  men  make  /a  quarrel  about  an(^ 
fight  to  the  death  for,  —  the  old  feral  instinct,  you 
know. 

Pray,  don’t  think  I  am  lost  in  conceit,  but 
there  is  another  girl  here  who  I  begin  to  think 
looks  with  a  certain  kindness  on  me.  Her  name 
is  Elsie  V.,  and  she  is  the  only  daughter  and  heir-  u 
css  of  an  old  family  in  this  place.  She  is  a  por¬ 
tentous  and  almost  fearful  creature.  If  I  should 
tell  you  all  I  know  and  half  of  what  I  fancy 
about  her,  you  would  tell  me  to  get  my  life  in- 
lured  at  once.  Yet  she  is  the  most  painfully 
interesting  being, — so  handsome!  so  lonely!  — 
for  she  has  no  friends  among  the  girls,  and  sits 
apart  from  them, — with  black  hair  like  the  How 
of  a  mountain-brook  after  a  thaw,  with  a  low¬ 
browed,  scowling  beauty  of  face,  and  such  eyes 
as  were  never  seen  before,  I  really  believe,  in  any 
human  creature. 

Philip,  I  don’t  know  what  to  say  about  this 


588 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


\ 


Elsie.  There  is  something  about  her  I  have  not 
fathomed.  I  have  conjectures  which  I  could  not 
utter  to  any  living  soul.  I  dare  not  even  hint 
the  possibilities  which  have  suggested  themselves 
to  me.  This  I  will  say,  — that  I  do  take  the  most 
intense  interest  in  this  young  person,  an  interest 
much  more  like  pity  than  love  in  its  common 
sense.  If  what  I  guess  at  is  true,  of  all  the  trag- 
ed  ies  of  existence  I  ever  knew  this  is  the  saddest, 
and  yet  so  full  of  meaning  !  Do  not  ask  me  any 
questions, —  I  have  said  more  than  I  meant  to 
already  ;  but  I  am  involved  in  strange  doubts  and 
-perplexities,  —  in  dangers  too,  very  possibly, — 
and  it  is  a  relief  just  to  speak  ever  so  guardedly 
of  them  to  an  early  and  faithful  friend. 

Yours  ever, 

Bernard. 

P.  S.  I  remember  you  had  a  copy  of  Fortu- 
nius  Licetus  “  De  Monstris  ”  among  your  old. 
books.  Can’t  you  lend  it  to  me  for  a  while  ?  1 

&m  curious,  and  it  will  amuse  me. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


288 


V 


CHAPTER  XVn. 

OLD  SOPHY  CALLS  ON  THEr  REVEREND  DOCTOR.  _ 

/  r 

The  two  meeting-houses  which  faced  each 
other  like  a  pair  of  fighting-cocks  had  not  flapped 
their  wings  or  crowed  at  each  other  for  a  consid¬ 
erable  time.  The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  had 
been  dyspeptic  and  low-spirited  of  late,  and  was 
too  languid  for  controversy.  The  Reverend  Doc« 
tor  Honeywood  had  been  very  busy  with  his  be¬ 
nevolent  associations,  and  had  discoursed  chiefly 
on  practical  matters,  to  the  neglect  of  special 
doctrinal  subjects.  His  senior  deacon  ventured 
lo  say  to  him  that  some  of  his  people  required  to  ^ 
be  reminded  of  the  great  fundamental  doctrine 
of  the  worthlessness  of  all  human  efforts  and  mo¬ 
tives.  Some  of  them  were  altogether  too  much 
pleased  with  the  success  of  the  Temperance  So¬ 
ciety  and  the  Association  for  the  Relief  of  the 
Poor.  There  was  a  pestilent  heresy  about,  con¬ 
cerning  the  satisfaction  to  be  derived  from  a  good 
eonscience,  - — as  if  anybody  ever  did  anything 


290 


ELSIE  VEHNER. 


which  was  not  to  be  hated,  loathed,  despised  and 
condemned. 

The  old  minister  listened  gravely,  with  an  in¬ 
ward  smile,  and  told  his  deacon  that  he  would  at¬ 
tend  to  his  suggestion.  After  the  deacon  had  gone, 
he  tumbled  over  his  manuscripts,  until  at  length 
he  came  upon  his  first-rate  old  sermon  on  “Hu¬ 
man  Nature.”  He  had  read  a  great  deal  of  hard 
theology,  and  had  at  last  reached  that  curious 
state  which  is  so  common  in  good  ministers, — 
that,  namely,  in  which  they  contrive  to  switch 
off  their  logical  faculties  on  the  narrow  side-track 
of  their  technical  dogmas,  while  the  great  freight- 
train  of  their  substantial  human  qualities  keeps 
in  the  main  highway  of  common-sense,  in  which 
kindly  souls  are  always  found  by  all  who  approach 
them  by  their  human  side. 

The  Doctor  read  his  sermon  with  a  pleasant, 
paternal  interest:  it  was  well  argued  from  his 
premises.  Here  and  there  he  dashed  his  pen 
through  a  harsh  expression.  Now  and  then  he 
added  an  explanation  or  qualified  a  broad  state¬ 
ment.  But  his  mind  was  on  the  logical  side¬ 
track,  and  he  followed  the  chain  of  reasoning 
without  fairly  perceiving  where  it  would  lead 
him,  if  he  carried  it  into  real  life. 

He  was  just  touching  up  the  final  proposition, 
when  his  granddaughter,  Letty,  once  before  re¬ 
ferred  to,  came  into  the  room  with  her  smiling 
face  and  lively  movement.  Miss  Letty  or  Letitia 
Forrester  was  a  city -bred  girl  of  some  fifteen  oj 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


291 


rv 

sixteen  years  old,  who  was  passing  the  summer 
with  her  grandfather  for  the  sake  of  country  air  and 
quiet.  It  was  a  sensible  arrangement ;  for,  having 
the  promise  of  figuring  as  a  belle  by-and-by,  and 
being  a  little  given  to  dancing,  and  having  a, 
voice  which  drew  a  pretty  dense  circle  around 
the  piano  when  she  sat  down  to  play  and  sing, 
it  was  hard  to  keep  her  from  being  carried  into 
society  before  her  time,  by  the  mere  force  of  mu¬ 
tual  attraction.  Fortunately,  she  had  some  quiet 
as  well  as  some  social  tastes,  and  was  willing 
enough  to  pass  two  or  4hree  of  the  summer 
months  in  the  country,  where  she  was  mucfi 
better  bestowed  than  she  would  have  been  at 
one  of  those  watering-places  where  so  many  half- 
formed  girls  get  prematurely  hardened  in  the  vice 
of  self-consciousness. 

Miss  Letty  was  altogether  too  wholesome, 
hearty,  and  high-strung  a  young  girl  to  be  a 
model,  according  to  the  flat-chested  and  cachectic  ^ 
pattern  which  is  the  classical  type  of  certain  ex¬ 
cellent  young  females,  often  the  subjects  of  bio¬ 
graphical  memoirs.  But  the  old  minister  was 
proud  of  his  granddaughter  for  all  that.  She 
was  so  full  of  life,  so  graceful,  so  generous,  so 
vivacious,  so  ready  always  to  do  all  she  could  for 
bim  and  for  everybody,  so  perfectly  frank  in  her 
avowed  delight  in  the  pleasures  which  this  miser- 
able  world  offered  her  in  the  shape  of  natural 
beauty,  of  poetry,  of  music,  of  companionship 
of  books,  of  cheerful  cooperation  in  the  tasks  of 


292 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


those  about  her,  that  the  Reverend  Doctor  c(  aid 
not  find  it  in  his  heart  to  condemn  her  because 
she  was  deficient  in  those  particular  graces  and 
that  signal  other-worldliness  he  had  sometimes 
noticed  in  feeble  young  persons  suffering  from 
various  chronic  diseases  which  impaired  their 
vivacity  and  removed  them  from  the  range  of 
temptation. 

When  Letty,  therefore,  came  bounding  into  the 
old  minister’s  study,  he  glanced  up  from  his  man¬ 
uscript,  and,  as  his  eye  fell  upon  her,  it  flashed 
across  him  that  there  was  nothing  so  very  mon¬ 
strous  and  unnatural  about  the  specimen  of  con¬ 
genital  perversion  he  was  looking  at,  with  his 
features  opening  into  their  pleasantest  sunshine. 
Technically,  according  to  the  fifth  proposition  of 
the  sermon  on  Human  Nature,  very  bad,  no 
doubt.  Practically,  according  to  the  fact  before 
him,  a  very  pretty  piece  of  the  Creator’s  handi¬ 
work,  body  and  soul.  Was  it  not  a  conceivable 
thing  that  the  divine  grace  might  show  itself  in 
different  forms  in  a  fresh  young  girl  like  Letitia, 
and  in  that  poor  thing  he  had  visited  yesterday, 
half-grown,  half-colored,  in  bed  for  the  last  year 
with  hip-disease?  Was  it  to  be  supposed  that 
this  healthy  young  girl,  with  life  throbbing  all 
over  her,  could ,  without  a  miracle,  be  good  ac¬ 
cording  to  the  invalid  pattern  and  formula  ? 

And  yet  there  were  mysteries  in  human  nature 
which  pointed  to  some  tremendous  perversion  of 
Mb  tendencies, —  to  some  profound,  radical  vic$ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


293 


of  moral  constitution,  native  or  transmitted,  as 
you  will  have  it,  but  positive,  at  any  rate,  as  the 
leprosy,  breaking  out  in  the  blood  of  races,  guard 
them  ever  so  carefully.  Did  he  not  know  the 
case  of  a  young  lady  in  Rockland,  daughter  of 
one  of  the  first  families  in  the  place,  a  very  beau¬ 
tiful  and  noble  creature  to  look  at,  for  whose 
bringing-up  nothing  had  been  spared,  —  a  girl 
who  had  had  governesses  to  teach  her  at  the 
house,  who  had  been  indulged  almost  too  kindly, 
—  a  girl  whose  father  had  given  himself  up  to 
her,  he  being  himself  a  pure  and  high-souled 
man?  —  and  yet  this  girl  was  accused  in  whis¬ 
pers  of  having  been  on  the  very  verge  of  com¬ 
mitting  a  fatal  crime  ;  she  was  an  object  of  fear 
to  all  who  knew  the  dark  hints  which  had  been 
let  fall  about  her,  and  there  were  some  that  be¬ 
lieved  -  Why,  what  was  this  but  an  instance 

of  the  total  obliquity  and  degeneration  of  the 
moral  principle  ?  and  to  what  could  it  be  ow¬ 
ing,  but  to  an  innate  organic  tendency  ? 

“  Busy,  grandpapa  ?  ”  said  Letty,  and  without 
waiting  for  an  answer  kissed  his  cheek  with  a 
pair  of  lips  made  on  purpose  for  that  little  func¬ 
tion, —  fine,  but  richly  turned  out,  the  corners 
tucked  in  with  a  finish  of  pretty  dimples,  the 
rose-bud  lips  of  girlhood’s  June. 

The  old  gentleman  looked  at  his  granddaugh¬ 
ter.  Nature  swelled  up  from  his  heart  in  a  wave 
that  sent  a  glow  to  his  cheek  and  a  sparkle  to  hia 
sye  But  it  is  very  hard  to  be  interrupted  just  as 


294 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


we  are  winding  up  a  string  of  propositions  with 
the  grand  conclusion  which  is  the  statement  in 
brief  of  all  that  has  gone  before :  our  own  start* 
mg-point,  into  which  we  have  been  trying  to  back 
our  reader  or  listener  as  one  backs  a  horse  into 
the  shafts. 

r~j 

/  “  Video  meliora,  proboque , —  I  see  the  better, 

and  approve  it;  deteriora  sequor ,  I  follow  after 
the  worse ;  ’tis  that  natural  dislike  to  what  is 
good,  pure,  holy,  and  true,  that  inrooted  selfish¬ 
ness,  totally  insensible  to  the  claims  of” - 

Here  the  worthy  man  was  interrupted  by  Miss 
Letty. 

u  Do  come,  if  you  can,  grandpapa,”  said  the 
young  girl ;  “  here  is  a  poor  old  black  woman 
wants  to  see  you  so  much!” 

The  good  minister  was  as  kind-hearted  as  if 
he  had  never  groped  in  the  dust  and  ashes  of 
those  cruel  old  abstractions  which  have  killed 
out  so  much  of  the  world’s  life  and  happiness. 
u  With  the  heart  man  believeth  unto  righteous¬ 
ness”;  a  man’s  love  is  the  measure  of  his  fit¬ 
ness  for  good  or  bad  company  here  or  elsewhere. 

J  Men  are  tattooed  with  their  special  beliefs  like  so 
many  South- Sea  Islanders  ;  but  a  real  human 
heart,  with  Divine  love  in  it,  beats  with  the  same 
glow  under  all  the  patterns  of  all  earth’s  thou¬ 
sand  tribes ! 

The  Doctor  sighed,  and  folded  the  sermon,  and 

o.  ^  laid  the  Quarto  Cruden  on  it.  He  rose  from  his 

» 

desk,  and,  looking  once  more  at  the  young  girl’* 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


295 


ace,  forgot  his  logical  conclusions,  and  said  to 
himself  that  she  was  a  little  angel,  —  which  was 
in  violent  contradiction  to  the  leading  doctrine  of 
his  sermon  on  Human  Nature.  And  so  he  fol¬ 
lowed  her  out  of  the  study  into  the  wide  entry 
of  the  old-fashioned  country-house. 

An  old  black  woman  sat  on  the  plain  oaken 
settle  which  humble  visitors  waiting  to  see  the 
minister  were  wont  to  occupy.  She  was  old,  but 
how  old  it  would  be  very  hard  to  guess.  She 
might  be  seventy.  She  might  be  ninety.  One_ 
could  not  swear  she  was  not  a  hundred.  Blacl/ 
women  remain  at  a  stationary  age  (to  the  eyes 
of  white  people,  at  least)  for  thirty  years.  They 
do  not  appear  to  change  during  this  period  any 
more  than  so^ many  Trenton  trilobites.  Bent  up, 
wrinkled,  yellow-eyed,  with  long  upper-lip,  pro¬ 
jecting  jaws,  retreating  chin,  still  meek  features, 
long  arms,  large  flat  hands  with  uncolored  palms 
and  slightly  webbed  fingers,  it  was  impossible  not 
to  see  in  this  old  creature  a  hint  of  the  gradations  P 
by  which  life  climbs  up  through  the  lower  natures 
to  the  highest  human  developments.  We  cannot 
tell  such  old  women’s  ages  because  we  do  not 
understand  the  physiognomy  of  a  race  so  unlike 
our  own.  No  doubt  they  see  a  great  deal  in  each 
other’s  faces  that  we  cannot,  —  changes  of  color 
and  expression  as  real  as  Dur  own,  blushes  and 
iudden  betrayals  of  feeling,  — just  as  these  two 
canaries  know  what  their  single  notes  and  short 
leniences  and  full  song  with  this  or  that  varia 


lb  6  ELSIE  VENNEE. 

tion  mean,  though  it  is  a  mystery  to  us  unplumed 
mortals. 

This  particular  old  black  woman  was  a  striking 
specimen  of  her  class.  Old  as  she  looked,  her 
eye  was  bright  and  knowing.  She  wore  a  red 
and-yellow  turban,  which  set  off  her  complexion 
well,  and  hoops  of  gold  in  her  ears,  and  beads  of 
gold  about  her  neck,  and  an  old  funeral  ring  upon 
her  finger.  She  had'  that  touching  stillness  about 
her  which  belongs  to  animals  that  wait  to  be 
spoken  to  and  then  look  up  with  a  kind  of  sad 
humility. 

“  Why,  Sophy !  ”  said  the  good  minister,  “  is 
this  you  ?  ” 

She  looked  up  with  the  still  expression  on  her 
face.  “  It’s  ol’  Sophy,”  she  said. 

“  Why,”  said  the  Doctor,  “  I  did  not  believe 
you  could  walk  so  far  as  this  to  save  the  Union. 
Bring  Sophy  a  glass  of  wine,  Letty.  Wine’s 
good  for  old  folks  like  Sophy  and  me,  after  walk¬ 
ing  a  good  way,  or  preaching  a  good  while.” 

The  young  girl  stepped  into  the  back-parlor, 
where  she  found  the  great  pewter  flagon  in 
which  the  wine  that  was  left  after  each  com' 
munion-service  was  brought  to  the  minister’ 
house.  With  much  toil  she  managed  to  tip  it  so 
as  to  get  a  couple  of  glasses  filled.  The  min¬ 
ister  tasted  his,  and  made  old  Sophy  finish  hers, 

“  I  wan’  to  see  you  ’n’  talk  wi’  you  all  alone,” 
ehe  said  presently. 

The  minister  got  up  and  led  the  way  toward* 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


297 


nis  study.  u  To  be  sure,”  he  said ;  he  had  only 
waited  for  her  to  rest  a  moment  before  he  asked 
her  into  the  library.  The  young  girl  took  her 
gently  by  the  arm,  and  helped  her  feeble  steps 
along  the  passage.  When  they  reached  tk^ 
study,  she  smoothed  the  cushion  of  a  rocking 
chair,  and  made  the  old  woman  sit  down  in  it. 
Then  she  tripped  lightly  away,  and  left  her  alone 
with  the  minister. 

Old  Sophy  was  a  member  of  the  Reverend  X 
Doctor  Honeywood’s  church.  She  had  been  put 
through  the  necessary  corffessions  in  a  tolerabfy 
satisfactory  manner.  To  be  sure,  as  her  grand¬ 
father  had  been  a  cannibal  chief,  according  to  the 
common  story,  and,  at  any  rate,  a  terrible  wild 
savage,  and  as  her  mother  retained  to  the  last 
some  of  the  prejudices  of  her  early  education, 
there  was  a  heathen  flavor  in  her  Christianity, 
which  had  often  scandalized  the  elder  of  the 
minister’s  two  deacons.  But  the  good  minis¬ 
ter  had  smoothed  matters  over :  had  explained 
that  allowances  were  to  be  made  for  those  who 
had  been  long  sitting  without  the  gate  of  Zion, 
—  that,  no  doubt,  a  part  of  the  curse  which  de* 
Bcended  to  the  children  of  Ham  consisted  in 
u  having  the  understanding  darkened,”  as  well 
as  the  skin, —  and  so  had  brought  his  suspi¬ 
cious  senior  deacon  to  tolerate  old  Sophy  aa 
£ne  of  the  communion  of  feilow-sinners. 


Poor  things!  How  little  we  know  the 


298 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


simple  notions  with  which  these  rudiments  of 
souls  are  nourished  by  the  Divine  Goodness  !  Did 
not  Mrs.  Professor  come  home  this  very  blessed 
morning  with  a  story  of  one  of  her  old  black 
women  7 

“  And  how  do  you  feel  to-day,  Mrs.  Robinson?’ 

u  Oh,  my  dear,  I  have  this  singing  in  my  head 
all  the  time.”  (What  doctors  call  tinnitus  aurinm.) 

“  She’s  got  a  cold  in  the  head,”  said  old  Mrs. 
Rider. 

“  Oh,  no,  my  dear !  Whatever  I’m  thinking 
about,  it’s  all  this  singing,  this  music.  When  I’m 
thinking  of  the  dear  Redeemer,  it  all  turns  into 
this  singing  and  music.  When  the  dark  came  to 
see  me,  I  asked  him  if  he  couldn’t  cure  me,  and 
he  said,  No,  —  it  was  the  Holy  Spirit  in  me,  sing¬ 
ing  to  me ;  and  all  the  time  I  hear  this  beautiful 
music,  and  it’s  the  Holy  Spirit  a-singing  to 
me.” - 

The  good  man  wafted  for  Sophy  to  speak ;  but 
she  did  not  open  her  lips  as  yet. 

“  I  hope  you  are  not  troubled  in  mind  or  body,” 
he  said  to  her  at  length,  finding  she  did  not  speak. 

The  poor  old  woman  took  out  a  white  hand¬ 
kerchief,  and  lifted  it  to  her  black  face.  She 
could  not  say  a  word  for  her  tears  and  sobs. 

The  minister  would  have  consoled  her ;  he  was 
used  to  tears,  and  could  in  most  cases  withstand 
their  contagion  manfully ;  but  something  chokec 
ais  voice  suddenly,  and  when  he  called  upon  it 


ELSIE  VENNEE.  299 

he  got  no  answer,  but  a  tremulous  movement  of 
the  muscles,  which  was  worse  than  silence. 

At  last  she  spoke. 

u  Oh,  no,  no,  no !  It’s  my  poor  girl,  my  dar¬ 
ling,  my  beauty,  my  baby,  that’s  grown  up  to  be  a 
woman ;  she  will  come  to  a  bad  end;  she  will  do 
something  that  will  make  them  kill  her  or  shut 
her  up  all  her  life.  Oh,  Doctor,  Doctor,  save  hei, 
pray  for  her  !  It  a’n’t  her  fault.  It  a’n’t  her  fault. 
If  they  knew  all  that  I  know,  they  wouldn’  blame 
that  poor  child.  I  must  jtell  you,  Doctor:  if  1 
should  die,  perhaps  nobody  else  would  tell  you^ 
Massa  Venner  can’t  talk  about  it.  Doctor  Kit~ 
tredge  won’t  talk  about  it.  Nobody  but  old  So¬ 
phy  to  tell  you,  Doctor;  and  old  Sophy  can’t  die 
without  telling  you.” 

The  kind  minister  soothed  the  poor  old  soul 
with  those  gentle,  quieting  tones  which  had  car¬ 
ried  peace  and  comfort  to  so  many  chambers  of 
sickness  and  sorrow,  to  so  many  hearts  overbur¬ 
dened  by  the  trials  laid  upon  them. 

Old  Sophy  became  quiet  in  a  few  minutes,  and 
proceeded  to  tell  her  story.  She  told  it  in  the  low 
half-whisper  which  is  the  natural  voice  of  lips  op¬ 
pressed  with  grief  and  fears;  with  quick  glance3 
around  the  apartment  from  time  to  time,  as  if  she 
dreaded  lest  the  dim  portraits  on  the  walls  and 
the  dark  folios  on  the  shelves  might  overhear  her 
words. 

V 

It  was  not  one  of  those  conversations  which  a 
tfnrd  person  can  report  minutely,  unless  by  that 


aoo 


ELSIE  VENNER 


^  •'  miracle  of  clairvoyance  known  to  the  readers  of 

^ 'P  \  stories  made  out  of  authors’  brains.  Yet  its  main 

character  can  be  imparted  in  a  much  briefer  space 
than  the  old  black  woman  took  to  give  all  its 
details. 

She  went  far  back  to  the  time  when  Dudley 
Venner  was  born,  —  she  being  then  a  middle-aged 
woman.  The  heir  and  hope  of  a  family  which 
had  been  narrowing  down  as  if  doomed  to  extino 
tion,  he  had  been  surrounded  with  every  care  and 
trained  by  the  best  education  he  could  have  in 
New  England.  He  had  left  college,  and  was 
studying  the  profession  which  gentlemen  of  lei* 
sure  most  affect,  when  he  fell  in  love  with  a  young 
girl  left  in  the  world  almost  alone,  as  he  was. 
The  old  woman  told  the  story  of  his  young  love 
and  his  joyous  bridal  with  a  tenderness  which  had 
something  more,  even,  than  her  family  sympathies 
to  account  for  it.  Had  she  not  hanging  over  her 
bed  a  paper-cutting  of  a  profile — jet  black,  but 
not  blacker  than  the  face  it  represented  —  of  one 
who  would  have  been  her  own  husband  in  the 
small  years  of  this  century,  if  the  vessel  in  which 
^  he  wen^  1°  sea,  like  Jamie  in  the  ballad,  had  not 
sailed  away  and  never  come  back  to  land  ?  Had 
she  not  her  bits  of  furniture  stowed  away  which 
had  been  got  ready  for  her  own  wedding,  —  two 
rocking-chairs,  one  worn  with  long  use,  one  kepi 
for  him  so  long  that  it  had  grown  a  superstition 
with  her  never  to  sit  in  it,  —  and  might  he  not 
come  back  yet,  after  all  ?  Had  she  not  her  chest 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


301 


of  linen  ready  for  her  humble  house-keeping,  with 
store  of  serviceable  huckaback  and  piles  of  neatly  'V 
folded  kerchiefs,  wherefrom  this  one  that  showed 
so  white  against  her  black  face  was  taken,  for  that 
she  knew  her  eyes  would  betray  her  in  “  the 
presence  ”  ? 

All  the  first  part  of  the  story  the  old  woman 
told  tenderly,  and  yet  dwelling  upon  every  inci¬ 
dent  with  a  loving  pleasure.  How  happy  this 
young  couple  had  been,  what  plans  and  projects 
of  improvement  they  had  formed,  how  they  lived 
in  each  other,  always  together,  so  young  and  fresl( 
and  beautiful  as  she  remembered  them  in  that  one 
early  summer  when  they  walked  arm  in  arm 
through  the  wilderness  of  roses  that  ran  riot  in  the 
garden,  —  she  told  of  this  as  loath  to  leave  it  and 
come  to  the  woe  that  lay  beneath. 

She  told  the  whole  story; — shall  I  repeat  it? 
Not  now.  If,  in  the  course  of  relating  the  inci¬ 
dents  I  have  undertaken  to  report,  it  tells  itself \ 
perhaps  this  will  be  better  than  to  run  the  risk  of 
producing  a  painful  impression  on  some  of  those 
susceptible  readers  whom  it  would  be  ill-advised 
to  disturb  or  excite,  when  they  rather  require  to 
be  amused  and  soothed.  In  our  pictures  of  life, 
we  must  show  the  flowering-out  of  terrible 
growths  which  have  their  roots  deep,  deep  under¬ 
ground.  Just  how  far  we  shall  lay  bare  the  un- 
Eecmlv  roots  themselves  is  a  matter  of  discretion 
and  taste,  in  which  none  of  us  are  infallible. 

The  old  woman  told  the  whole  story  of  Elsie* 


^  Q*. 

o 


502 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


C 


> 

fW'4* 


C^° 


of  her  birth,  of  her  peculiarities  of  person  and  dis 
position,  of  the  passionate  fears  and  hopes  with 
which  her  father  had  watched  the  course  of  her 
development.  She  recounted  all  her  strange  ways, 
from  the  hour  when  she  first  tried  to  crawl  across 
the  carpet,  and  her  father’s  look  as  she  worked  her 
way  towards  him.  With  the  memory  of  Juliet’s 
nurse  she  told  the  story  of  her  teething,  and  how, 
the  woman  to  whose  breast  she  had  clung  dying 
suddenly  about  that  time,  they  had  to  struggle 
hard  with  the  child  before  she  would  learn  the  ac¬ 
complishment  of  feeding  with  a  spoon.  And  so 
of  her  fierce  plays  and  fiercer  disputes  with  that 
boy  who  had  been  her  companion,  and  the  whole 
scene  of  the  quarrel  when  she  struck  him  with 
those  sharp  white  teeth,  frightening  her,  old  So¬ 
phy,  almost  to  death ;  for,  as  she  said,  the  boy 
would  have  died,  if  it  hadn’t  been  for  the  old 
Doctor’s  galloping  over  as  fast  as  he  could  gallop 
and  burning  the  places  right  out  of  his  arm. 
Then  came  the  story  of  that  other  incident,  suf¬ 
ficiently  alluded  to  already,  which  had  produced 
such  an  ecstasy  of  fright  and  left  such  a  night¬ 
mare  of  apprehension  in  the  household.  And  so 
the  old  woman  came  down  to  this  present  time. 
That  boy  she  never  loved  nor  trusted  was  grown 
to  a  dark,  dangerous-looking  man,  and  he  was  un¬ 
der  their  roof.  He  wanted  to  marry  our  poor 
Elsie,  and  Elsie  hated  him,  and  sometimes  she 
Would  look  at  him  over  her  shoulder  just  as  she 
used  to  look  at  that  woman  she  hated  *  and  she 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


303 


old  Sophy,  couldn’t  sleep  for  thinking  she  should 
hear  a  scream  from  the  white  chamber  some  night 
and  find  him  in  spasms  such  as  that  woman 
came  so  near  dying  with.  And  then  there  was 
something  about  Elsie  she  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of:  she  would  sit  and  hang  her  head  some¬ 
times,  and  look  as  if  she  were  dreaming  ;  and  she 
brought  home  books  they  said  a  young  gentleman 
up  at  the  great  school  lent  her:  and  once  she 
heard  her  whisper  in  her  sleep,  and  she  talked  as 
young  girls  do  to  themselves  when  they’re  thinks 
ing  about  somebody  they  have  a  liking  for  and^ 
think  nobody  knows  it. 

She  finished  her  long  story  at  last.  The  minis¬ 
ter  had  listened  to  it  in  perfect  silence.  He  sat 
still  even  when  she  had  done  speaking,  —  still, 
and  lost  in  thought.  It  was  a  very  awkward 
matter  for  him  to  have  a  hand  in.  Old  Sophy 
was  his  parishioner,  but  the  Venners  had  a  pew 
in  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather’s  meeting-house. 
It  would  seem  that  he,  Mr.  Fairweather,  was  the 
natural  adviser  of  the  parties  most  interested. 
Had  he  sense  and  spirit  enough  to  deal  with  such 
people  ?  Was  there  enough  capital  of  humanity 
in  his  somewhat  limited  nature  to  furnish  sympa¬ 
thy  and  unshrinking  service  for  his  friends  in  an 
emergency  ?  or  was  he  too  busy  with  his  own 
attacks  of  spiritual  neuralgia,  and  too  much  oc¬ 
cupied  with  taking  account  of  stock  of  his  own 
thin-blooded  offences,  to  forget  himself  and  his 
personal  interests  on  the  small  scale  and  t'ne  large, 


504 


ELSIE  VEXNER. 


and  run  a  risk  of  his  life,  if  need  were,  at  anj 
rate  give  himself  up  without  reserve  to  the  dan¬ 
gerous  task  of  guiding  and  counselling  these  dis« 
tressed  and  imperilled  fellow-creatures  ? 

The  good  minister  thought  the  best  thing  to  do 
would  be  to  call  and  talk  over  some  of  these  mat¬ 
ters  with  Brother  Fairweather,  —  for  so  he  would 
call  him  at  times,  especially  if  his  senior  deacon 
were  not  within  earshot.  Having  settled  this 
point,  he  comforted  Sophy  with  a  few  words  of 
counsel  and  a  promise  of  coming  to  see  her  very 
soon.  He  then  called  his  man  to  put  the  old 
white  horse  into  the  chaise  and  drive  Sophy  back 
to  the  mansion-house. 

When  the  Doctor  sat  down  to  his  sermon 
again,  it  looked  very  differently  from  the  way  it 
<£$.****  had  looked  at  the  moment  he  4eft  it.  When  he 
came  to  think  of  it,  he  did  not  feel  quite  so  sure 
'practically  about  that  matter  of  the  utter  natural 
selfishness  of  everybody.  There  was  Letty,  now, 
seemed  to  take  a  very  wwselfish  interest  in  that 
old  black  woman,  and  indeed  in  poor  people  gen¬ 
erally  ;  perhaps  it  would  not  be  too  much  to  say 
that  she  was  always  thinking  of  other  people. 
He  thought  he  had  seen  other  young  persons 
naturally  unselfish,  thoughtful  for  others  ;  it 
seemed  to  be  a  family  trait  in  some  he  had 
known. 

But  most  of  all  he  was  exercised  about  this 
poor  girl  whose  story  Sophy  had  been  telling 
If  what  the  old  woman  believed  was  true,  —  ana 


9-y/l,  &L  frf  t.  L 

u 


/*JL4judLfcC^ 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


305 


it  had  too  much  semblance  of  probability,  — 
what  became  of  his  theory  of  ingrained  inorak 
obliquity  applied  to  such  a  case  ?  If  by  the  vis¬ 
itation  of  God  a  person  receives  any  injury  which 
impairs  the  intellect  or  the  moral  perceptions,  is 
it  not  monstrous  to  judge  such  a  person  by  our 
common  working  standards  of  right  and  wrong? 
Certainly,  everybody  will  answer,  in  cases  where 
there  is  a  palpable  organic  change  brought  about, 
as  when  a  blow  on  the  head  produces  insanity. 

Fools!  How  long  will  itjie  before  we  shall  learn 
that  for  every  wound  which  betrays  itself  to  the 
sight  by  a  scar,  there  are  a  thousand  unseen  mu¬ 
tilations  that  cripple,  each  of  them,  some  one  or  >: 
more  of  our  highest  faculties  ?  If  what  Sophy 
told  and  believed  was  the  real  truth,  what  prayers 
could  be  agonizing  enough,  what  tenderness  could 
be  deep  enough,  for  this  poor,  lost,  blighted,  hap¬ 
less,  blameless  child  of  misfortune,  struck  by  such  £+**-*: 
a  doom  as  perhaps  no  living  creature  in  all  the 
sisterhood  of  humanity  shared  with  her  ? 

The  minister  thought  these  matters  over  until 
his  mind  was  bewildered  with  doubts  and  tossed 
to  and  fro  on  that  stormy  deep  of  thought  heav. 
ing  forever  beneath  the  conflict  of  windy  dogmas,  »’/ 

He  laid  by  his  old  sermon.  He  put  back  a  pile  ^ 

of  old  commentators  with  their  eyes  and  mouths  10 
and  hearts  full  of  the  dust  of  the  schools.  Then 
tie  opened  the  book  of  Genesis  at  the  eighteenth 
chapter  and  read  that  remarkable  argument  of 

Abraham’s  with  hin  Maker,  in  which  he  boldly 

20 


306 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


appeals  to  first  principles.  He  took  as  his  text, 
Shall  not  the  Judge  of  all  the  earth  do  right  ?  n 
and  began  to  write  his  sermon,  afterwards  so 
famous,  —  “  On  the  Obligations  of  an  Infinite 
Creator  to  a  Finite  Creature.” 

It  astonished  the  good  people,  who  had  been 
accustomed  so  long  to  repeat  mechanically  their 
Oriental  hyperboles  of  self-abasement,  to  hear 
their  worthy  minister  maintaining  that  the  dig¬ 
nified  attitude  of  the  old  Patriarch,  insisting  on 
what  was  reasonable  and  fair  with  reference  to 
his  fellow-creatures,  was  really  much  more  re¬ 
spectful  to  his  Maker,  and  a  great  deal  manlier 
and  more  to  his  credit,  than  if  he  had  yielded  the 
whole  matter,  and  pretended  that  men  had  not 
rights  as  well  as  duties.  The  same  logic  which 
had  carried  him  to  certain  conclusions  with  refer¬ 
ence  to  human  nature,  this  same  irresistible  logic 
carried  him  straight  on  from  his  text  until  he  ar¬ 
rived  at  those  other  results,  which  not  only  aston¬ 
ished  his  people,  as  was  said,  but  surprised  him- 
Belf.  He  went  so  far  in  defence  of  the  rights  of 
man,  that  he  put  his  foot  into  several  heresies,  for 
which  men  had  been  burned  so  often,  it  was  time, 
if  ever  it  could  be,  to  acknowledge  the  demon¬ 
stration  of  the  argumentum  ad  ignem.  He  did  not 
believe  in  the  responsibility  of  idiots.  He  did 
not  believe  a  new-born  infant  was  morally  an- 
Bwerable  for  other  people’s  acts.  He  thought  a 
man  with  a  crooked  spine  would  never  be  called 
to  account  for  not  walking  erect.  He  thought 


ELSIE  VENNEL.  307 

»• 

if  the  crook  was  in  his  brain,  instead  of  his  back  \f§ai  W**-*1^ 
he  could  not  fairly  be  blamed  for  any  consequence 
of  this  natural  defect,  whatever  lawyers  or  divines 
might  call  it.  He  argued,  that,  if  a  person  in¬ 
herited  a  perfect  mind,  body,  and  disposition,  and 
had  perfect  teaching  from  infancy,  that  person 
could  do  nothing  more  than  keep  the  moral  law 
perfectly.  But  supposing  that  the  Creator  allows 
a  person  to  be  born  with  an  hereditary  or  ingrafted 
organic  tendency,  and  then  puts  this  person  into 
the  hands  of  teachers  incompetent  or  positively 
bad,  is  not  what  is  called  sin  or  transgression  of 
the  law  necessarily  involved  in  the  premises  ?  Is 
not  a  Creator  bound  to  guard  his  children  against 
the  ruin  which  inherited  ignorance  might  entail 
on  them  ?  Would  it  be  fair  for  a  parent  to  put 
into  a  child’s  hands  the  title-deeds  to  all  its  future 
possessions,  and  a  bunch  of  matches  ?  And  are 
not  men  children,  nay,  babes,  in  the  eye  of  Om¬ 
niscience  ?  —  The  minister  grew  bold  in  his  ques¬ 
tions.  Had  not  he  as  good  right  to  ask  questions 
as  Abraham  ? 

This  was  the  dangerous  vein  of  speculation  in 
v/hich  the  Reverend  Doctor  Honeywood  found 
himself  involved,  as  a  consequence  of  the  sug¬ 
gestions  forced  upon  him  by  old  Sophy’s  com- 
municatiom  The  truth  was,  the  good  man  had 
got  so  humanized  by  mixing  up  wi+h  other  peo¬ 
ple  in  various  benevolent  schemes,  that,  the  very 
moment  he  could  escape  from  his  old  scholastic 
abstractions,  he  took  the  side  of  humanity  in* 


308 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


stinctively,  just  as  the  Father  of  the  Faithful  did 
—  all  honor  be  to  the  noble  old  Patriarch  for  in¬ 
sisting  on  the  worth  of  an  honest  man,  and  mak¬ 
ing  the  best  terms  he  could  for  a  very  ill-condi¬ 
tioned  metropolis,  which  might  possibly,  however 
have  contained  ten  righteous  people,  for  whose 
sake  it  should  be  spared ! 

The  consequence  of  all  this  was,  that  he  was 
in  a  singular  and  seemingly  self-contradictory 
state  of  mind  when  he  took  his  hat  and  cane  and 
went  forth  to  call  on  his  heretical  brother.  The 
old  minister  took  it  for  granted  that  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Fairweather  knew  the  private  history  of  his 
parishioner’s  family.  He  did  not  reflect  that  there 
are  griefs  men  never  put  into  words,  —  that  there 
are  fears  which  must  not  be  spoken,  —  intimate 
matters  of  consciousness  which  must  be  carried, 
as  bullets  which  have  been  driven  deep  into  the 
living  tissues  are  sometimes  carried,  for  a  whole 
lifetime,  —  encysted  griefs,  if  we  may  borrow 
the  chirurgeon’s  term,  never  to  be  reached,  never 
to  be  seen,  never  to  be  thrown  out,  but  to  go  into 
the  dust  with  the  frame  that  bore  them  about 
with  it,  during  long  years  of  anguish,  known  onl 
to  the  sufferer  and  his  Maker.  Dudley  Vennev 
had  talked  with  his  minister  about  this  child  of 
his.  But  he  had  talked  cautiously,  feeling  his 
way  for  sympathy,  looking  out  for  those  indica¬ 
tions  ot  tact  and  judgment  which  would  war¬ 
rant  him  in  some  partial  communication,  at  least, 
of  the  origin  of  his  doubts  and  fears,  and  neve/ 
finding  them. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


30  \f 

There  was  something  about  the  Reverend  Mr, 
Fairweather  which  repressed  all  attempts  at  con¬ 
fidential  intercourse.  What  this  something  was, 
Dudley  Venner  could  hardly  say  ;  but  he  lelt  it 
distinctly,  and  it  sealed  his  lips.  He  never  got 
beyond  certain  generalities  connected  with  edu* 
cation  and  religious  instruction.  The  ministei 
could  not  help  discovering,  however,  that  there 
were  difficulties  connected  with  this  girl’s  man¬ 
agement,  and  he  heard  enough  outside  of  the 
family  to  convince  him  that  she  had  manifested 
tendencies,  from  an  early  age,  at  variance  wph 
the  theoretical  opinions  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
preaching,  and  in  a  dim  way  of  holding  for  truth, 
as  to  the  natural  dispositions  of  the  human 
being. 

About  this  terrible  fact  of  congenital  obliquity 
his  new  beliefs  began  to  cluster  as  a  centre,  and 
to  take  form  as  a  crystal  around  its  nucleus. 
Still,  he  might  perhaps  have  struggled  against 
them,  had  it  not  been  for  the  little  Roman  Cath¬ 
olic  chapel  he  passed  every  Sunday,  on  his  way 
to  the  meeting-house.  Such  a  crowd  of  worship¬ 
pers,  swarming  into  the  pews  like  bees,  filling  all. 
the  aisles,  running  over  at  the  door  like  berries 
heaped  too  full  in  the  measure,  —  some  kneeling 
on  the  steps,  some  standing  on  the  side-walk, 
hats  off,  heads  down,  lips  moving,  some  looking 
on  devoutly  from  the  other  side  of  the  street! 
Oh,  could  he  have  followed  his  own  Bridget, 
aaaid  of  all  work,  into  the  heart  of  that  steaming 


310 


ELSIE  VEKNER. 


throng,  and  bowed  his  head  while  the  piiests  in 
toned  their  Latin  prayers!  could  he  have  snuffed 
up  the  cloud  of  frankincense,  and  felt  that  he 
was  in  the  great  ark  which  holds  the  better  half 
of  the  Christian  world,  while  all  around  it  aro 
wretched  creatures,  some  struggling  against  the 
waves  in  leaky  boats,  and  some  on  ill-connected 
rafts,  and  some  with  their  heads  just  above  water, 
thinking  to  ride  out  the  flood  which  is  to  sweep 
the  earth  clean  of  sinners,  upon  their  own  private, 
individual  life-preservers ! 

Such  was  the  present  state  of  mind  of  the 
Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather,  when  his  clerical 
brother  called  upon  him  to  talk  over  the  ques¬ 
tions  to  which  old  Sophy  had  called  his  attention 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


3  J  J 


V 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

THE  REVEREND  DOCTOR  CALLS  ON  BROTHER  FAIR- 

WEATHER. 

For  the  last  few  months,  while  all  these  vari¬ 
ous  matters  were  going  on  in  Rockland,  the  Rev^ 
erend  Chauncy  Fairweather  had  been  busy  with 
the  records  of  ancient  councils  and  the  writings 
of  the  early  fathers.  The  more  he  read,  the  more 
discontented  he  became  with  the  platform  upon 
which  he  and  his  people  were  standing.  They 
and  he  were  clearly  in  a  minority,  and  his  deep 
inward  longing  to  be  with  the  majority  was 
growing  into  an  engrossing  passion.  He  yearned 
especially  towards  the  good  old  unquestioning, 
authoritative  Mother  Church,  with  her  articles  of 
faith  which  took  away  the  necessity  for  private 
judgment,  with  her  traditional  forms  and  cere¬ 
monies,  and  her  whole  apparatus  of  stimulants 
and  anodynes. 

About  this  time  he  procured  a  breviary  and 
kept  it  in  his  desk  under  the  loose  papers.  He 
Bent  to  a  Catholic  bookstore  and  obtained  a  small 
crucifix  suspended  from  a  string  of  beads.  He 
ordered  his  new  coat  to  be  cut  very  narrow  in 


312 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  collar  and  to  be  made  single-breasted.  He 
began  an  informal  series  of  religious  conversa¬ 
tions  with  Miss  O’Brien,  the  young  person  of 
Irish  extraction  already  referred  to  as  Bridget 
maid  of  all  work.  These  not  proving  very  satis¬ 
factory,  he  managed  to  fall  in  with  Father  Me- 
Shane,  the  Catholic  priest  of  the  Rockland  church 
Father  Me  Shane  encouraged  his  nibble  very  sci¬ 
entifically.  It  would  be  such  a  fine  thing  to  bring 
over  one  of  those  Protestant  heretics,  and  a 
“  liberal  ”  one  too  !  —  not  that  there  was  any  real 
difference  between  them,  but  it  sounded  better 
to  say  that  one  of  these  rationalizing  free-and- 
equal  religionists  had  been  made  a  convert  than 
any  of  those  half-way  Protestants  who  were  the 
slaves  of  catechisms  instead  of  councils  and  of 
commentators  instead  of  popes.  The  subtle 
priest  played  his  disciple  with  his  finest  tackle 
It  was  hardly  necessary :  when  anything  or  any 
body  wishes  to  be  caught,  a  bare  hook  and  a 
coarse  line  are  all  that  is  needed. 

If  a  man  has  a  genuine,  sincere,  hearty  wish 
-  to  get  rid  of  his  liberty,  if  he  is  really  bent  upon 
becoming  a  slave,  nothing  can  stop  him.  And  the 
temptation  is  to  some  natures  a  very  great  one. 
Liberty  is  often  a  heavy  burden  on  a  man.  It  in¬ 
volves  that  necessity  for  perpetual  choice  which  is 
the  kind  of  labor  men  have  always  dreaded.  In 
common  life  we  shirk  it  by  forming  habits ,  which 
take  the  place  of  self-determination.  In  politics 
Tarty-organization  saves  us  the  pains  of  much 


ELSIE  VENNEL. 


313 


thinking  before  deciding  how  to  cast  our  vote- 
In  religious  matters  there  are  great  multitudes 
watching  us  perpetually,  each  propagandist  ready 
with  his  bundle  of  finalities,  which  having  accept¬ 
ed  we  may  be  at  peace.  The  more  absolute  the 
submission  demanded,  the  stronger  the  tempta* 
tion  becomes  to  those  who  have  been  long  tossed 
among  doubts  and  conflicts. 

So  it  is  that  in  all  the  quiet  bays  which  indent 
the  shores  of  the  great  ocean  of  thought,  at  every 
sinking  wharf,  we  see  moored  the  hulks  and  the 
razees  of  enslaved  or  half-enslaved  intelligences. 
They  rock  peacefully  as  children  in  their  cradles 
on  the  subdued  swell  which  comes  feebly  in  over 
the  bar  at  the  harbor’s  mouth,  slowly  crusting 
with  barnacles,  pulling  at  their  iron  cables  as  if 
they  really  wanted  to  be  free,  but  better  contented 
to  remain  bound  as  they  are.  For  these  no  more 
the  round  un walled  horizon  of  the  open  sea, 
the  joyous  breeze  aloft,  the  furrow,  the  foam,  the 
sparkle  that  track  the  rushing  keel !  They  have 
escaped  the  dangers  of  the  wave,  and  lie  still 
henceforth,  evermore.  Happiest  of  souls,  if  leth¬ 
argy  is  bliss,  and  palsy  the  chief  beatitude ! 

America  owes  its  political  freedom  to  relig¬ 
ious  Protestantism.  But  political  freedom  is  re¬ 
acting  on  religious  prescription  with  still  mightier 
force.  We  wonder,  therefore,  when  we  find  a 
soul  which  was  born  to  a  full  sense  of  individual 
liberty,  an  unchallenged  right  of  self-determina¬ 
tion  on  every  new  alleged  truth  offered  to  its 


B14 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


> 

intelligence,  voluntarily  surrendering  any  portion 
of  its  liberty  to  a  spiritual  dictatorship  which  al¬ 
ways  proves  to  rest,  in  the  last  analysis,  on  a 
majority  vote ,  nothing  more  nor  less,  commonly 
an  old  one,  passed  in  those  barbarous  times 
when  men  cursed  and  murdered  each  other  for 
differences  of  opinion,  and  of  course  were  not  in 
a  condition  to  settle  the  beliefs  of  a  compara 
tively  civilized  community. 

In  our  disgust,  we  are  liable  to  be  intolerant. 
We  forget  that  weakness  is  not  in  itself  a  sin. 
We  forget  that  even  cowardice  may  call  for  our 
most  lenient  judgment,  if  it  spring  from  innate 
infirmity.  Who  of  us  does  not  look  with  great 
tenderness  on  the  young  chieftain  in  the  “  Fair 
Maid  of  Perth,”  when  he  confesses  his  want  of 
courage  ?  All  of  us  love  companionship  and  sym¬ 
pathy;  some  of  us  may  love  them  too  much.  All 
of  us  are  more  or  less  imaginative  in  our  the¬ 
ology.  Some  of  us  may  find  the  aid  of  material 
symbols  a  comfort,  if  not  a  necessity.  The 
boldest  thinker  may  have  his  moments  of  lan¬ 
guor  and  discouragement,  when  he  feels  as  if  he 
could  willingly  exchange  faiths  with  the  old  bel¬ 
dame  crossing  herself  at  the  cathedral-door, — 
nay,  that,  if  he  could  drop  all  coherent  thought, 
and  lie  in  the  flowery  meadow  with  the  brown¬ 
eyed  solemnly  unthinking  cattle,  looking  up  to 
the  sky,  and  all  their  simple  consciousness  stain¬ 
ing  itself  blue,  then  down  to  the  grass,  arid  life 
turning  to  a  mere  greenness,  blended  with  cor> 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


315 


fused  scents  of  herbs, — no  individual  mind-move 
ment  such  as  men  are  teased  with,  but  the  great 
calm  cattle-sense  of  all  time  and  all  places  that 
know  the  milky  smell  of  herds,  —  if  he  could  be 
lilce  these,  he  would  be  content  to  be  driven  home 
by  the  cow-boy,  and  share  the  grassy  banquet  of 
the  king  of  ancient  Babylon.  Let  us  be  very 
generous,  then,  in  our  judgment  of  those  who 
leave  the  front  ranks  of  thought  for  the  company 
of  the  meek  non-combatants  who  follow  with  the 
baggage  and  provisions.-  Age,  illness,  too  much 
wear  and  tear,  a  half-formed  paralysis,  may  bring 
any  of  us  to  this  pass.  But  while  we  can  think 
and  maintain  the  rights  of  our  own  individuality 
against  every  human  combination,  let  us  not 
forget  to  caution  all  who  are  disposed  to  waver 
that  there  is  a  cowardice  which  is  criminal,  and 
a  longing  for  rest  which  it  is  baseness  to  indulge. 
God  help  him,  over  whose  dead  soul  in  his  liv¬ 
ing  body  must  be  uttered  the  sad  supplication, 
Requiescat  in  pace  ! 

A  knock  at  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather’s 
study-door  called  his  eyes  from  the  book  on  which 
they  were  intent.  He  looked  up,  as  if  expecting 
a  welcome  guest. 

The  Reverend  Pierrepont  Honeywood,  D.  D., 
entered  the  study  of  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fair- 
weather.  He  was  not  the  expected  guest.  Mr. 
Fairweather  slipped  the  book  he  was  reading  into 
a  half-open  drawer,  and  pushed  in  the  drawer. 


516 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


He  slid  something  which  rattled  under  a  papei 
lying  on  the  table.  He  rose  with  a  slight  change 
of  color,  and  welcomed,  a  little  awkwardly,  hia 
unusual  visitor. 

u  Good  evening,  Brother  Fairweather !  ”  said 
the  Reverend  Doctor,  in  a  very  cordial,  good 
humored  way.  “  I  hope  I  am  not  spoiling  one  of 
those  eloquent  sermons  I  never  have  a  chance  to 
hear.” 

u  Not  at  all,  not  at  all,”  the  younger  clergyman 
answered,  in  a  languid  tone,  with  a  kind  of  ha* 
bitual  half-querulousness  which  belonged  to  it,  — 
the  vocal  expression  which  we  meet  with  now 
and  then,  and  which  says  as  plainly  as  so  many 
words  could  say  it,  “  I  am  a  suffering  individual. 
I  am  persistently  undervalued,  wronged,  and  im¬ 
posed  upon  by  mankind  and  the  powers  of  the 
universe  generally.  But  I  endure  all.  I  endure 
you .  Speak.  I  listen.  It  is  a  burden  to  me,  but 
I  even  approve.  I  sacrifice  myself.  Behold  this 
movement  of  my  lips  !  It  is  a  smile.” 

The  Reverend  Doctor  knew  this  forlorn  way  of 
Mr.  Fairweather’s,  and  was  not  troubled  by  it. 
He  proceeded  to  relate  the  circumstances  of  his 
visit  from  the  old  black  woman,  and  the  fear  she 
was  in  about  the  young  girl,  who  being  a  parish* 
ioner  of  Mr.  Fairweather’s,  he  had  thought  it  best 
to  come  over  and  speak  to  him  about  old  Sophy’s 
fears  and  fancies. 

In  telling  the  old  woman’s  story,  he  alluded 
only  vaguely  to  those  peculiar  circumstances  tc 


ELSIE  VENNEIi. 


317 


which  she  had  attributed  so  much  importance, 
taking  it  for  granted  that  the  other  minister  must  v 
be  familiar  with  the  whole  series  of  incidents  she 
had  related.  The  old  minister  was  mistaken,  as 
we  have  before  seen.  Mr.  Fairweather  had  been 
settled  in  the  place  only  about  ten  years,  and, 
if  he  had  heard  a  strange  hint  now  and  then 
about  Elsie,  had  never  considered  it  as  anything 
more  than  idle  and  ignorant,  if  not  malicious,  vil¬ 
lage-gossip.  All  that  he  fully  understood  was 
that  this  had  been  a  perverse  and  unmanageable 
child,  and  that  the  extraofdinary  care  which  had 
been  bestowed  on  her  had  been  so  far  thrown 
away  that  she  was  a  dangerous,  self-willed  girl, 
whom  all  feared  and  almost  all  shunned,  as  if  she 
carried  with  her  some  malignant  influence. 

He  replied,  therefore,  after  hearing  the  story, 
that  Elsie  had  always  given  trouble.  There 
seemed  to  be  a  kind  of  natural  obliquity  about 
her.  Perfectly  unaccountable.  A  very  dark  case. 
Never  amenable  to  good  influences.  Had  sent 
her  good  books  from  the  Sunday-school  library. 
Remembered  that  she  tore  out  the  frontispiece  of 
one  >f  them,  and  kept  it,  and  flung  the  book  out 
3 1  The  window.  It  was  a  picture  of  Eve’s  temp¬ 
tation  ;  and  he  recollected  her  saying  that  Eve 
was  a  good  woman,  —  and  she’d  have  done  just 
so,  if  she’d  been  there.  A  very  sad  child,  —  very 
sad ;  bad  from  infancy.  —  He  frad  talked  himself 
bold,  and  said  all  at  once,  — 

u  Doctor,  do  you  know  I  am  almost  ready  to 


318 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


accept  your  doctrine  of  the  congenita  sinfulness 
of  human  nature  ?  I  am  afraid  that  is  the  onty 
thing  which  goes  to  the  bottom  of  the  difficulty.’ 

The  old  minister’s  face  did  not  open  so  approv* 
Ingly  as  Mr.  Fairweather  had  expected. 

“  Why,  yes,  —  well,  —  many  find  comfort  in  it, 
—  I  believe  ;  —  there  is  much  to  be  said,  —  there 
are  many  bad  people, — and  bad  children, —  1 
can’t  be  so  sure  about  bad  babies,  —  though  they 
cry  very  malignantly  at  times,  —  especially  if 
they  have  the  stomach-ache.  But  I  really  don’t 
know  how  to  condemn  this  poor  Elsie  ;  she  may 
have  impulses  that  act  in  her  like  instincts  in  the 
lower  animals,  and  so  not  come  under  the  bearing 
of  our  ordinary  rules  of  judgment.” 

u  But  this  depraved  tendency,  Doctor,  —  this 
unaccountable  perverseness.  My  dear  Sir,  I  am 
afraid  your  school  is  in  the  right  about  human  na¬ 
ture.  Oh,  those  words  of  the  Psalmist,  4  shapen 
in  iniquity,’  and  the  rest !  What  are  we  to  do 
with  them, --we  who  teach  that  the  soul  of  a 
child  is  an  unstained  white  tablet?” 

“  King  David  was  very  subject  to  fits  of  humil¬ 
ity,  and  much  given  to  self-reproaches,”  said  the 
Doctor,  in  a  rather  dry  way.  “  We  owe  you  and 
your  friends  a  good  deal  for  calling  attention  to 
the  natural  graces,  which,  after  all,  may,  perhaps, 
be  considered  as  another  form  of  manifestation 
of  the  divine  influence.  Some  of  our  writers  have 
pressed  rather  too  hard  on  the  tendencies  of  the 
auman  soul  toward  evil  as  such.  It  may  be  que» 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


31* 

tioned  whether  these  views  have  not  interfered 
with  the  sound  training  of  certain  young  persons, 
sons  of  clergymen  and  others.  I  am  nearer  of 
your  mind  about  the  possibility  of  educating 
children  so  that  they  shall  become  good  Christians 
without  any  violent  transition.  That  is  what  1 
should  hope  for  from  bringing  them  up  ‘in  the 
nurture  and  admonition  of  the  Lord.’  ” 

The  younger  minister  looked  puzzled,  but  pres¬ 
ently  answered,  — 

“  Possibly  we  may  have  called  attention  to 
some  neglected  truths ;  but,  after  all,  I  fear 
must  go  to  the  old  school,  if  we  want  to  get  at 
the  root  of  the  matter.  I  know  there  is  an  out¬ 
ward  amiability  about  many  young  persons,  some 
young  girls  especially,  that  seems  like  genuine 
goodness  ;  but  I  have  been  disposed  of  late  to 
lean  toward  your  view,  that  these  human  affec¬ 
tions,  as  we  see  them  in  our  children,  —  ours,  I 
say,  though  I  have  not  the  fearful  responsibility 
of  training  any  of  my  own,  —  are  only  a  kind  of 
disguised  and  sinful  selfishness.” 

The  old  minister  groaned  in  spirit.  His  heart 
had  been  softened  by  the  sweet  influences  of 
children  and  grandchildren.  He  thought  of  a 
half-sized  grave  in  the  burial-ground,  and  the 
fine,  brave,  noble-hearted  boy  he  laid  in  it  thirty 
fears  before,  —  the  sweet,  cheerful  child  who  had 
made  his  home  all  sunshine  until  the  day  when 
he  was  brought  into  it,  his  "ong  curls  dripping,  his 
fresh  lips  purpled  in  death,  —  foolish  dear  little 


320 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


blessed  creature  to  throw  himself  into  the  deep 
water  to  save  the  drowning  boy,  who  clung  about 
him  and  carried  him  under !  Disguised  selfish* 
ness!  And  his  granddaughter  too,  whose  dis¬ 
guised  selfishness  was  the  light  of  his  house¬ 
hold  ! 

“Don’t  call  it  my  view!”  he  said.  “  Abstract* 
ly,  perhaps,  all  natures  may  be  considered  vitiat¬ 
ed  ;  but  practically,  as  I  see  it  in  life,  the  divine 
grace  keeps  pace  with  the  perverted  instincts  from 
infancy  in  many  natures.  Besides,  this  perversion 
itself  may  often  be  disease,  bad  habits  transmit¬ 
ted,  like  drunkenness,  or  some  hereditary  misfor¬ 
tune,  as  with  this  Elsie  we  were  talking  about.” 

The  younger  minister  was  completely  mystified. 
At  every  step  he  made  towards  the  Doctor’s  rec¬ 
ognized  theological  position,  the  Doctor  took  just 
one  step  towards  his.  They  would  cross  each 
other  soon  at  this  rate,  and  might  as  well  ex¬ 
change  pulpits,  —  as  Colonel'  Sprowle  once  wished 
they  would,  it  may  be  remembered. 

The  Doctor,  though  a  much  clearer-headed  man, 
was  almost  equally  puzzled.  He  turned  the  con¬ 
versation  again  upon  Elsie,  and  endeavored  to 
make  her  minister  feel  the  importance  of  bringing 
every  friendly  influence  to  bear  upon  her  at  this 
critical  period  of  her  life.  His  sympathies  did 
not  seem  so  lively  as  the  Doctor  could  have 
wished.  Perhaps  he  had  vastly  more  important 
©hjects  of  solicitude  in  his  own  spiritual  interests, 

A  knock  at  the  door  interrupted  them.  Tn# 


32* 


ELSIE  VENNER. 

Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  rose  and  went  towards 
it.  As  he  passed  the  table,  his  coat  caught  some-v 
thing,  which  came  rattling  to  the  floor.  It  was  a 
crucifix  with  a  string  of  beads  attached.  As  he 
opened  the  door,  the  Milesian  features  of  Father 
McShane  presented  themselves,  and  from  theij 
centre  proceeded  the  clerical  benediction  in  Irish- 
sounding  Latin,  Pax  vobiscum  ! 

The  Reverend  Doctor  Honeywood  rose  and  left 
the  priest  and  his  disciple  together. 


522 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  XIX. 

THE  SPIDER  ON  HIS  THREAD. 

There  was  nobody,  then,  to  counsel  poor  Elsie* 
except  her  father,  who  had  learned  to  let  her  have 
her  own  way  so  as  not  to  disturb  such  relations 
as  they  had  together,  and  the  old  black  woman, 
who  had  a  real,  though  limited  influence  over  the 
girl.  Perhaps  she  did  not  need  counsel.  To  look 
upon  her,  one  might  well  suppose  that  she  was 
competent  to  defend  herself  against  any  enemy 
she  was  like  to  have.  That  glittering,  piercing 
eye  was  not  to  be  softened  by  a  few  smooth 
words  spoken  in  law  tones,  charged  with  the 
common  sentiments  which  win  their  way  to 
maidens’  hearts.  That  round,  lithe,  sinuous  fig¬ 
ure  was  as  full  of  dangerous  life  as  ever  lay  under 
the  slender  flanks  and  clean-shaped  limbs  of  a 
panther. 

There  were  particular  times  when  Elsie  was  in 
such  a  mood  that  it  must  have  been  a  bold  per¬ 
son  who  would  have  intruded  upon  her  with  re¬ 
proof  or  counsel.  u  This  is  one  of  her  days,”  old 
Sophy  would  say  quietly  to  her  father,  and  he 
’vould,  as  far  as  possible,  leave  her  to  herself 


These  days  were  more  frequent,  as  old  Sophy’s 
keen,  concentrated  watchfulness  had  taught  hqr, 
at  certain  periods  of  the  year.  It  was  in  the 
heats  of  summer  that  they  were  most  common 
and  most  strongly  characterized.  In  winter,  on 
the  other  hand,  she  was  less  excitable,  and  even 
at  times  heavy  and  as  if  chilled  and  dulled  in  her 
sensibilities.  It  was  a  strange,  paroxysmal  kind  a 
of  life  that  belonged  to  her.  It  seemed  to  come 
and  go  with  the  sunlight.  All  winter  long  she 
would  be  comparatively  quiet,  easy  to  manage, 
listless,  slow  in  her  motions ;  her  eye  would  lp'se 
something  of  its  strange  lustre ;  and  the  old  nurse 
would  feel  so  little  anxiety,  that  her  whole  ex¬ 
pression  and  aspect  would  show  the  change,  and 
people  would  say  to  her,  “Why,  Sophy,  how 
young  you’re  looking!” 

As  the  spring  came  on,  Elsie  would  leave  the 
fireside,  have  her  tiger-skin  spread  in  the  empty 
southern  chamber  next  the  wall,  and  lie  there 
basking  for  whole  hours  in  the  sunshine.  As  the 
season  warmed,  the  light  would  kindle  afresh  in 
her  eyes,  and  the  old  woman’s  sleep  would  grow 
restless  again,  —  for  she  knew,  that,  so  long  as  the 
glitter  was  fierce  in  the  gill’s  eyes,  there  was  no 
trusting  her  impulses  or  movements. 

At  last,  when  the  veins  of  the  summer  were  hot 
and  swollen,  and  the  juices  of  all  the  poison-plants 
and  the  blood  of  all  the  creatures  that  feed  upon 
them  had  grown  thick  ana  strong,  —  about  the 
time  when  the  second  mowing  was  in  hand,  and 


i 


324 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  brown,  wet-faced  men  were  following  up  the 
scythes  as  they  chased  the  falling  waves  of  grass, 
(falling  as  the  waves  fall  on  sickle-curved  beach¬ 
es  ;  the  foam-flowers  dropping  as  the  grass-flowers 
drop, — with  sharp  semivowel  consonantal  sounds 
— - frsh ,  —  for  that  is  the  way  the  sea  talks,  and 
leaves  all  pure  vowel-sounds  for  the  winds  to 
breathe  over  it,  and  all  mutes  to  the  unyielding 
earth,) — about  this  time  of  over-ripe  midsummer, 
the  life  of  Elsie  seemed  fullest  of  its  malign  and 
restless  instincts.  This  was  the  period  of  the 
year  when  the  Rockland  people  were  most  cau¬ 
tious  of  wandering  in  the  leafier  coverts  which 
skirted  the  base  of  The  Mountain,  and  the  farm¬ 
ers  liked  to  wear  thick,  long  boots,  whenever  they 
went  into  the  bushes.  But  Elsie  was  never  so 
much  given  to  roaming  over  The  Mountain  as 
at  this  season ;  and  as  she  had  grown  more  abso¬ 
lute  and  uncontrollable,  she  was  as  like  to  take 
the  night  as  the  day  for  her  rambles. 

At  this  season,  too,  all  her  peculiar  tastes  in 
dress  and  ornament  came  out  in  a  more  striking 
way  than  at  other  times.  She  was  never  so 
superb  as  then,  and  never  so  threatening  in  her 
scowling  beauty.  Thejbarred  skirts  she  always 
fancied  showed  sharply  beneath  her  diaphanous 
muslins ;  the  diamonds  often  glittered  on  her 
breast  as  if  for  her  own  pleasure  rather  than  to 
dazzle  others ;  the  asp-like  bracelet  hardly  left 
her  arm.  She  was  never  seen  without  some 
Necklace, —  either  the  golden  cord  she  wore  at  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


325 


great  party,  or  a  chain  of  mosaics,  or  simply  a 
ring  of  golden  scales.  Some  said  that  Elsie  al¬ 
ways  slept  in  a  necklace,  and  that  when  she  died 
she  was  to  be  buried  in  one.  It  was  a  fancy 
of  hers,  —  but  many  thought  there  was  a  reason 
for  it. 

Nobody  watched  Elsie  with  a  more  searching 
eye  than  her  cousin,  Dick  Venner.  He  had  kept 
more  out  of  her  way  of  late,  it  is  true,  but  there 
was  not  a  movement  she  made  which  he  did  not 

far  as  he  could  without 
exciting  her  suspicion.  It  was  plain  enough  t'o 
him  that  the  road  to  fortune  was  before  him,  and 
that  the  first  thing  was  to  marry  Eisie.  What 
course  he  should  take  with  her,  or  with  others 
interested,  after  marrying  her,  need  not  be  decided 
in  a  hurry. 

He  had  now  done  all  he  could  expect  to  do  at 
present  in  the  way  of  conciliating  the  other  mem¬ 
bers  of  the  household.  The  girl’s  father  tolerated 
him,  if  he  did  not  even  like  him.  Whether  he 
suspected  his  project  or  not  Dick  did  not  feel 
sure;  but  it  was  something  to  have  got  a  foot¬ 
hold  in  the  house,  and  to  have  overcome  any 
prepossession  against  him  which  his  uncle  might 
have  entertained.  To  be  a  good  listener  and  a 
bad  billiard-player  was  not  a  very  great  sacrifice 
to  effect  this  object.  Then  old  Sophy  could  hard¬ 
ly  help  feeling  well-disposed  towards  him,  after 
the  gifts  he  had  bestowed  on  her  and  the  court 
he  had  payed  her.  These  were  the  only  persons 


carefully  observe  just  so 


526 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


on  the  place  of  much  importance  to  gain  over 
The  people  employed  about  the  house  and  farm¬ 
lands  had  little  to  do  with  Elsie,  except  to  obey 
her  without  questioning  her  commands. 

Mr.  Richard  began  to  think  of  reopening  his 
second  parallel.  But  he  had  lost  something  of 
the  coolness  with  which  he  had  begun  his  system 
of  operations.  The  more  he  had  reflected  upon 
the  matter,  the  more  he  had  convinced  himself 
that  this  was  his  one  great  chance  in  life.  If  he 
suffered  this  girl  to  escape  him,  such  an  oppor¬ 
tunity  could  hardly,  in  the  nature  of  things,  pre¬ 
sent  itself  a  second  time.  Only  one  life  between 
Elsie  and  her  fortune,  —  and  lives  are  so  uncer¬ 
tain  !  The  girl  might  not  suit  him  as  a  wife. 
Possibly.  Time  enough  to  find  out  after  he  had 
got  her.  In  short,  he  must  have  the  property,  and 
Elsie  Venner,  as  she  was  to  go  with  it, — and  then, 
if  he  found  it  convenient  and  agreeable  to  lead  a 
virtuous  life,  he  would  settle  down  and  raise  chil¬ 
dren  and  vegetables;  but  if  he  found  it  incon¬ 
venient  and  disagreeable,  so  much  the  worse  for 
those  who  made  it  so.  Like  many  other  persons, 
he  was  not  principled  against  virtue,  provided  vir¬ 
tue  were  a  better  investment  than  its  opposite ; 
but  he  knew  that  there  might  be  contingencies  in 
which  the  property  would  be  better  without  its  in¬ 
cumbrances,  and  he  contemplated  this  conceivable 
problem  in  the  light  of  all  its  possible  solutions. 

One  thing  Mr.  Richard  could  not  conceal  front 
uimself:  Elsie  had  some  new  cause  of  indiflei 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


327 


jnce,  at  least,  if  not  of  aversion  to  him.  With 
the  acuteness  which  persons  who  make  a  sola 
ousiness  of  their  own  interest  gain  by  practice,  so 
that  fortune-hunters  are  often  shrewd  where  real 
lovers  are  terribly  simple,  he  fixed  at  once  on  the 
young  man  up  at  the  school  wheie  the  girl  had 
been  going  of  late,  as  probably  at  the  bottom  of 
it 

“  Cousin  Elsie  in  love !  ”  so  he  communed  with 
himself  upon  his  lonely  pillow.  “  In  love  with  a 
Yankee  school-master!  What  else  can  it  be? 
Let  him  look  out  for  himself!  He’ll  stand  but 
a  bad  chance  between  us.  What  makes  you 
think  she’s  in  love  with  him  ?  Met  her  walking 
with  him.  Don’t  like  her  looks  and  ways;  — 
she’s  thinking  about  something ,  anyhow.  Where 
does  she  get  those  books  she  is  reading  so  often  ? 
Not  out  of  our  library,  that’s  certain.  If  I  could 
nave  ten  minutes’  peep  into  her  chamber  now,  I 
would  find  out  where  she  got  them,  and  what 
mischief  she  was  up  to.” 

At  that  instant,  as  if  some  tributary  demon  had 
heard  his  wish,  a  shape  which  could  be  none  but 
Elsie’s  flitted  through  a  gleam  of  moonlight  into 
the  shadow  of  the  trees.  She  was  setting  out  on 
one  of  her  midnight  rambles. 

Dick  felt  his  heart  stir  in  its  place,  and  presently 
his  cheeks  flushed  with  the  old  longing  for  an 
adventure.  It  was  not  much  to  invade  a  young 
girl’s  deserted  chamber,  but  it  would  amuse  a 
wakeful  hour,  and  tell  him  some  little  matters  he 


ELSIE  VEXNER. 


B28 

wanted  to  know.  The  chamber  he  slept  in  was 
over  the  room  which  Elsie  chiefly  occupied  at 
this  season.  There  was  no  great  risk  of  his  being 
seen  or  heard,  if  he  ventured  down-stairs  to  her 
apartment. 

Mr.  Richard  Venner,  in  the  pursuit  of  his  inter¬ 
esting  project,  arose  and  lighted  a  lamp.  He 
wrapped  himself  in  a  dressing-gown  and  thrust 
his  feet  into  a  pair  of  cloth  slippers.  He  stole 
carefully  down  the  stair,  and  arrived  safely  at  the 
door  of  Elsie’s  room.  The  young  lady  had  taken 
the  natural  precaution  to  leave  it  fastened,  carry¬ 
ing  the  key  with  her,  no  doubt,  —  unless,  indeed, 
she  had  got  out  by  the  window,  which  was  not 
far  from  the  ground.  Dick  could  get  in  at  this 
window  easily  enough,  but  he  did  not  like  the 
idea  of  leaving  his  footprints  in  the  flower-bed 
just  under  it.  He  returned  to  his  own  chamber, 
and  held  a  council  of  war  with  himself. 

He  put  his  head  out  of  his  own  window  and 
looked  at  that  beneath.  It  was  open.  He  then 
went  to  one  of  his  trunks,  which  he  unlocked,  and 
began  carefully  removing  its  contents.  What 
these  were  we  need  not  stop  to  mention,  —  only 
remarking  that  there  wera  dresses  of  various  pat 
terns,  which  might  afford  an  agreeable  series  ot 
changes,  and  in  certain  contingencies  prove  emi¬ 
nently  useful.  After  removing  a  few  of  these,  he 
thrust  his  hand  to  the  very  bottom  of  the  remain 
In g  pile  and  drew  out  a  coiled  strip  of  leathei 
many  yards  in  length,  ending  in  a  noose,  —  a 


p  f\ w 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


329 


tough,  well-seasoned  lasso)  looking  as  if  it  had 
seen  service  and  was  none  the  worse  for  it.  He 


uncoiled  a  few  yards  of  this  and  fastened  it  to  the 


knob  of  a  door.  Then  he  threw  the  loose  end 
out  of  the  window  so  that  it  should  hang  by  the 
open  casement  of  Elsie’s  room.  By  this  lie  let 
himself  down  opposite  her  window,  and  with  a 
slight  effort  swung  himself  inside  the  room.  lie 
lighted  a  match,  found  a  candle,  and,  having 
lighted  that,  looked  curiously  about  him,  as  Clo- 
dius  might  have  done  when  he  smuggled  himseif 
in  among  the  Vestals. 


Elsie’s  room  was  almost  as  peculiar  as  her 
dress  and  ornaments.  It  was  a  kind  of  museum 


of  objects,  such  as  the  woods 


who  have  eyes  to  see  them,  but  many  of  then? 
such  as  only  few  could  hope  to  reach,  even  if 
they  knew  where  to  look  for  them.  Crows’  nests, 
which  are  never  found  but  in  the  tall  trees,  com¬ 
monly  enough  in  the  forks  of  ancient  hemlocks^ 
eggs  of  rare  birds,  which  must  have  taken  a  quick 
eye  and  a  hard  climb  to  find  and  get  hold  of, 
mosses  and  ferns  of  unusual  aspect,  and  quaint 
monstrosities  of  vegetable  growth,  such  as  Nature 
delights  in,  showed  that  Elsie  had  her  tastes  and 
fancies  like  any  naturalist  or  poet. 

Nature,  when  left  to  her  own  freaks  in  the 
forest,  is  grotesque  and  fanciful  to  the  verge  of 
deense,  and  beyond  it.  The  foliage  of  trees  does 
Hot  always  require  clipping  to  make  it  look  like 
an  image  of  life.  From  those  windows  at  Canoo 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


830 

Meadow,  among  the  mountains,  we  could  see  ah 
summer  long  a  lion  rampant,  a  Shanghai  chicken, 
and  General  Jackson  on  horseback,  done  by  Na¬ 
ture  in  green  leaves,  each  with  a  single  tree.  But 
to  Nature’s  tricks  with  boughs  and  roots  and 
smaller  vegetable  growths  there  is  no  end.  Her 
fancy  is  infinite,  and  her  humor  not  always  re¬ 
fined.  There  is  a  perpetual  reminiscence  of  ani¬ 
mal  life  in  her  rude  caricatures,  which  sometimes 
actually  reach  the  point  of  imitating  the  complete 
human  figure,  as  in  that  extraordinary  specimen 
which  nobody  will  believe  to  be  genuine,  except 
the  men  of  science,  and  of  which  the  discreet 
reader  may  have  a  glimpse  by  application  in  the 
proper  quarter. 

Elsie  had  gathered  so  many  of  these  sculpture¬ 
like  monstrosities,  that  one  might  have  thought 
she  had  robbed  old  Sophy’s  grandfather  of  his 
fetishes.  They  helped  to  give  her  room  a  kind  of 
enchanted  look,  as  if  a  witch  had  her  home  in  it. 
Over  the  fireplace  was  a  long,  staff-like  branch, 
strangled  in  the  spiral  coils  of  one  of  those  vines 
which  strain  the  smaller  trees  in  their  clinging 
embraces,  sinking  into  the  bark  until  the  parasite 
becomes  almost  identified  with  its  support.  With 
these  sylvan  curiosities  were  blended  objects  of 
art,  some  of  them  not  less  singular,  but  others 
showing  a  love  for  the  beautiful  in  form  and  color 
such  as  a  girl  of  fine  organization  and  nice  cul< 
ture  might  naturally  be  expected  to  feel  and  to 
indulge,  in  adorning  her  apartment. 


r  a 


:JU u  -  aav 


,JrT  vW  ,  v 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


331 


All  these  objects,  pictures,  bronzes,  vases,  and 
the  rest,  did  not  detain  Mr.  Richard  Venner  very 
long,  whatever  may  have  been  his  sensibilities  to 
art.  He  was  more  curious  about  books  and  pa¬ 
pers.  A  copy  of  Keats  lay  on  the  table.  He 
opened  it  and  read  the  name  of  Bernard  (7. 
Langdon  on  the  blank  leaf.  An  envelope  was 
on  the  table  with  Elsie’s  name  written  in  a  simi¬ 
lar  hand ;  but  the  envelope  was  empty,  and  he 
could  not  find  the  note  it  contained.  Her  desk 
was  locked,  and  it  would  not  be  safe  to  tamper  y 
with  it.  He  had  seen  enough  ;  the  girl  received 
books  and  notes  from  this  fellow  up  at  the  school, 

—  this  usher,  this  Yankee  quill-driver;  —  he  was 
aspiring  to  become  the  lord  of  the  Dudley  do¬ 
main,  then,  was  he  ? 

Elsie  had  been  reasonably  careful.  She  had 
locked  up  her  papers,  whatever  they  might  be. 
There  was  little  else  that  promised  to  reward  his 
curiosity,  but  he  cast  his  eye  on  everything. 
There  was  a  clasp-Bible  among  her  books.  Dick 
wondered  if  she  ever  unclasped  it.  There  was 
a  book  of  hymns ;  it  had  her  name  in  it,  and 
Looked  as  if  it  might  have  been  often  read ;  — - 
what  the  diablo  had  Elsie  to  do  with  hymns  ? 

Mr  Richard  Venner  was  in  an  observing  and 
analytical  state  of  mind,  it  will  be  noticed,  or  he 
might  perhaps  have  been  touched  with  the  inno¬ 
cent  betrayals  of  the  poor  girl’s  chamber.  Had 
she,  after  all,  some  human  tenderness  in  her 
ueart  ?  That  was  not  the  way  he  put  the  ques- 


332 


ELSIE  VEITNEK. 


tion, —  but  whether  she  would  take  seriously  to 
this  schoolmaster,  and  if  she  did,  what  would  be 
the  neatest  and  surest  and  quickest  way  of  put¬ 
ting  a  stop  to  all  that  nonsense.  All  this,  how¬ 
ever,  he  could  think  over  more  safely  in  his  own 
quarters.  So  he  stole  softly  to  the  window,  and, 
catching  the  end  of  the  leathern  thong,  regained 
his  own  chamber  and  drew  in  the  lasso. 

It  needs  only  a  little  jealousy  to  set  a  man  on 
who  is  doubtful  in  love  or  wooing,  or  to  make 
him  take  hold  of  his  courting  in  earnest.  As 
soon  as  Dick  had  satisfied  himself  that  the  young 
schoolmaster  was  his  rival  in  Elsie’s  good  graces, 
his  whole  thoughts  concentrated  themselves  more 
than  ever  on  accomplishing  his  great  design  of 
securing  her  for  himself.  There  was  no  time  to 
be  lost.  He  must  come  into  closer  relations  with 
her,  so  as  to  withdraw  her  thoughts  from  this  fel¬ 
low,  and  to  find  out  more  exactly  what  was  the 
state  of  her  affections,  if  she  had  any.  So  he 
began  to  court  her  company  again,  to  propose 
riding  with  her,  to  sing  to  her,  to  join  her  when¬ 
ever  she  was  strolling  about  the  grounds,  to  make 
himself  agreeable,  according  to  the  ordinary  un¬ 
derstanding  of  that  phrase,  in  every  way  which 
seemed  to  promise  a  chance  for  succeeding  in 
that  amiable  effort. 

The  girl  treated  him  more  capriciously  than 
ever.  She  would  be  sullen  and  silent,  or  she 
would  draw  back  fiercely  at  some  harmless  word 
or  gesture,  or  she  would  look  at  him  with  he* 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


333 


eyes  narrowed  in  such  a  strange  way  and  with 
such  a  wicked  light  in  them  that  Dick  swore  tcv 
himself  they  were  too  much  for  him,  and  would 
leave  her  for  the  moment.  Yet  she  tolerated  him, 
almost  as  a  matter  of  necessity,  and  sometimes 
seemed  to  take  a  kind  of  pleasure  in  trying  her 
power  upon  him.  This  he  soon  found  out,  and 
humored  her  in  the  fancy  that  she  could  exercise 
a  kind  of  fascination  over  him,  —  though  there 
were  times  in  which  he  actually  felt  an  influence 
he  could  not  understand,  an  effect  of  some  pecul¬ 
iar  expression  about  her,  perhaps,  but  still  cer? 
fling  in  those  diamond  eyes  of  hers  which  it 
made  one  feel  so  curiously  to  look  into. 

Whether  Elsie  saw  into  his  object  or  not  was 
more  than  he  could  tell.  His  idea  was,  after 
having  conciliated  the  good-will  of  all  about  her 
as  far  as  possible,  to  make  himself  first  a  habit 
and  then  a  necessity  with  the  girl, —  not  to  spring 
any  trap  of  a  declaration  upon  her  until  tolerance 
had  grown  into  such  a  degree  of  inclination  as 
her  nature  was  like  to  admit.  He  had  succeeded 
in  the  first  part  of  his  plan.  He  was  at  liberty  to 
prolong  his  visit  at  his  own  pleasure.  This  was 
not  strange ;  these  three  persons,  Dudley  Vernier, 
his  daughter,  and  his  nephew,  represented  all  that 
remained  of  an  old  and  honorable  family.  Had 
El  sie  been  like  other  girls,  her  father  might  have 
been  less  willing  to  entertain  a  young  fellow  like 
Dick  as  an  inmate  ;  but  he  had  long  outgrown  all 
the  slighter  apprehensions  wiiich  he  might  have 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


334: 

had  in  common  with  all  parents,  and  followed 
rather  than  led  the  imperious  instincts  of  his 
daughter.  It  was  not  a  question  of  sentiment, 
but  of  life  and  death,  or  more  than  that,  —  some 
dark  ending,  perhaps,  which  would  close  the  his¬ 
tory  of  his  race  with  disaster  and  evil  report  upon 
ihe  lips  of  all  coming  generations. 

As  to  the  thought  of  his  nephew’s  making  love 
to  his  daughter,  it  had  almost  passed  from  his 
mind.  He  had  been  so  long  in  the  habit  of  look¬ 
ing  at  Elsie  as  outside  of  all  common  influences 
and  exceptional  in  the  law  of  her  nature,  that  it 
was  difficult  for  him  to  think  of  her  as  a  girl  to 
be  fallen  in  love  with.  Many  persons  are  sur¬ 
prised,  when  others  court  their  female  relatives ; 
they  know  them  as  good  young  or  old  women 
enough,  —  aunts,  sisters,  nieces,  daughters,  what¬ 
ever  they  may  be,  —  but  never  think  of  anybody’s 
falling  in  love  with  them,  any  more  than  of  their 
being  struck  by  lightning.  But  in  this  case  there 
were  special  reasons,  in  addition  to  the  common 
family  delusion, — reasons  which  seemed  to  make 
it  impossible  that  she  should  attract  a  suitor. 
Who  would  dare  to  marry  Elsie  ?  No,  let  her 
nave  the  pleasure,  if  it  was  one,  at  any  rate  the 
wholesome  excitement,  of  companionship  ;  it 
might  save  her  from  lapsing  into  melancholy  or 
a  worse  form  of  madness.  Dudley  Venner  had 
a  kind  of  superstition,  too,  that,  if  Elsie  could 
only  outlive  three  septenaries,  twenty-one  years, 
bc  that,  according  to  the  prevalent  idea,  her  whole 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


335 


frame  would  have  been  thrice  made  over,  count¬ 
ing  from  her  birth,  she  would  revert  to  the  natural 
standard  of  health  of  mind  and  feelings  from 
which  she  had  been  so  long  perverted.  The 
thought  of  any  other  motive  than  love  being 
sufficient  to  induce  Richard  to  become  her  suitor 
had  not  occurred  to  him.  He  had  married  early, 
at  that  happy  period  when  interested  motives  are 
least  apt  to  influence  the  choice  ;  and  his  single 
idea  of  marriage  was,  that  it  was  the  union  of 
persons  naturally  drawn  towards  each  other  by 
some  mutual  attraction.  Very  simple,  perhaps/; 
but  he  had  lived  lonely  for  many  years  since  his 
wife’s  death,  and  judged  the  hearts  of  others, 
most  of  all  of  his  brother’s  son,  by  his  own.  He 
had  often  thought  whether,  in  case  of  Elsie’s  dy¬ 
ing  or  being  necessarily  doomed  to  seclusion,  he 
might  not  adopt  this  nephew  and  make  him  his 
heir ;  but  it  had  not  occurred  to  him  that  Richard 
might  wish  to  become  his  son-in-law  for  the  sake 
of  his  property. 

It  is  very  easy  to  criticise  other  people’s  modes 
of  dealing  with  their  children.  Outside  observers 
%ee  results ;  parents  see  processes.  They  notice 
the  trivial  movements  and  accents  which  betray 
the  blood  of  this  or  that  ancestor ;  they  can  de¬ 
tect  the  irrepressible  movement  of  hereditary  im¬ 
pulse  in  looks  and  acts  which  mean  nothing  to 
the  common  observer.  To  be  a  parent  is  almost 
to  be  a  fatalist.  This  boy  sits  with  legs  crossed^ 
just  as  his  uncle  used  to  whom  he  never  saw 


336 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


his  grandfathers  both  died  before  he  was  born, 
but  he  has  the  movement  of  the  eyebrows  which 
we  remember  in  one  of  them,  and  the  gusty  tem¬ 
per  of  the  other. 

These  are  things  parents  can  see,  and  which 
(hey  must  take  account  of  in  education,  but 
which  few  except  parents  can  be  expected  to 
really  understand.  Here  and  there  a  sagacious 
person,  old,  or  of  middle  age,  who  has  triangu¬ 
lated  a  race,  that  is,  taken  three  or  more  observa¬ 
tions  from  the  several  standing-places  of  three 
different  generations,  can  tell  pretty  nearly  the 
range  of  possibilities  and  the  limitations  of  a 
child,  actual  or  potential,  of  a  given  stock,  — 
errors  excepted  always,  because  children  of  the 
same  stock  are  not  bred  just  alike,  because  the 
traits  of  some  less  known  ancestor  are  liable  to 
break  out  at  any  time,  and  because  each  human 
being  has,  after  all,  a  small  fraction  of  individu¬ 
ality  about  him  which  gives  him  a  flavor,  so  that 
ne  is  distinguishable  from  others  by  his  friends 
or  in  a  court  of  justice,  and  which  occasionally 
makes  a  genius  or  a  saint  or  a  criminal  of  him 
It  is  well  that  young  persons  cannot  read  these 
fatal  oracles  of  Nature.  Blind  impulse  is  hei 
highest  wisdom,  after  all.  We  make  our  great 
jump,  and  then  she  takes  the  bandage  off  oui 
eyes.  That  is  the  way  the  broad  sea-level  of 
average  is  maintained,  and  the  physiological 
democracy  is  enabled  to  fight  against  the  prin 
eiple  of  selection  which  would  disinherit  all  thf 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


337 


weaker  children.  The  magnificent  constituency 
of  mediocrities  of  which  the  world  is  made  up, 
> — the  people  without  biographies,  whose  lives 
have  made  a  clear  solution  in  the  fluid  men¬ 
struum  of  time,  instead  of  being  precipitated  in 

the  opaque  sediment  of  history - 

But  this  is  a  narrative,  and  not  a  disquisition. 


ELSIE  VENNEB. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

FROM  WITHOUT  AND  FROM  WITHIN. 

There  were  not  wanting  people  who  accused 
Dudley  Venner  of  weakness  and  bad  judgment 
in  his  treatment  of  his  daughter.  Some  were  of 
opinion  that  the  great  mistake  was  in  not  “  break¬ 
ing  her  will  ”  when  she  was  a  little  child.  There 
was  nothing  the  matter  with  her,  they  said,  but 
that  she  had  been  spoiled  by  indulgence.  If  they 
had  had  the  charge  of  her,  they’d  have  brought 
her  down.  She’d  got  the  upperhand  of  her  fa¬ 
ther  now ;  but  if  he’d  only  taken  hold  of  her  in 
season !  There  are  people  who  think  that  every¬ 
thing  may  be  done,  if  the  doer,  be  he  educator  oi 
physician,  be  only  called  “  in  season.”  No  doubt, 
—  but  in  season  would  often  be  a  hundred  or 
two  years  before  the  child  was  born ;  and  people 
never  send  so  early  as  that. 

The  father  of  Elsie  Venner  knew  his  duties 
and  his  difficulties  too  well  to  trouble  himself 
about  anything  others  might  think  or  say*  So 
soon  as  he  found  that  he  could  not  govern  his 
child,  he  gave  his  life  up  to  following  her  and 
protecting  her  as  far  as  he  could.  It  was  a  stern 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


339 


And  terrible  trial  for  a  man  of  acute  sensibility; 
and  not  without  force  of  intellect  and  will,  and 
the  manly  ambition  for  himself  and  his  family* 
name  which  belonged  to  his  endowments  -£nd 
his  position.  Passive  endurance  is  the  hardest 
trial  to  persons  of  such  a  nature. 

What  made  it  still  more  a  long  martvrdom 

O  9/ 

was  the  necessity  for  bearing  his  cross  in  utter 
loneliness.  He  could  not  tell  his  griefs.  He 
could  not  talk  of  them  even  with  those  who 
knew  their  secret  spring.  _His  minister  had  the 
unsympathetic  nature  which  is  common  in  the 
meaner  sort  of  devotees,  —  persons  who  mistake 
spiritual  selfishness  for  sanctity,  and  grab  at  the 
infinite  prize  of  the  great  Future  and  Elsewhere 
with  the  egotism  they  excommunicate  in  its  hardly 
more  odious  forms  of  avarice  and  self-indulgence. 
How  could  he  speak  with  the  old  physician  and 
the  old  black  woman  about  a  sorrow  and  a  terror 
which  but  to  name  was  to  strike  dumb  the  lips  of 
Consolation  ? 

In  the  dawn  of  his  manhood  he  had  found  that 
second  consciousness  for  which  young  men  and 
young  women  go  about  looking  into  each  other's 
taces,  with  their  sweet,  artless  aim  playing  in 
every  feature,  and  making  them  beautiful  to 
each  other,  as  to  all  of  us.  He  had  found  his 
other  self  early,  before  he  had  grown  weary  in  the 
search  and  wasted  his  freshness  in  vain  longings : 
the  lot  of  many,  perhaps  we  may  say  of  most, 
who  infringe  the  patent  of  our  social  order  by  in* 


540 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


trading  themselves  into  a  life  already  upon  half 
allowance  of  the  necessary  luxuries  of  existence, 
The  life  he  had  led  for  a  brief  space  was  not  only 
beautiful  in  outward  circumstance,  as  old  Sophy 
had  described  it  to  the  Reverend  Doctor.  It  waa 
that  delicious  process  of  the  tuning  of  two  souls 
tc  each  other,  string  by  string,  not  without  little 
half-pleasing  discords  now  and  then  when  some 
chord  in  one  or  the  other  proves  to  be  over¬ 
strained  or  over-lax,  but  always  approaching 
nearer  and  nearer  to  harmony,  until  they  be¬ 
come  at  last  as  two  instruments  with  a  single 
voice.  Something  more  than  a  year  of  this  bliss¬ 
ful  doubled  consciousness  had  passed  over  him 
when  he  found  himself  once  more  alone,  —  alone, 
save  for  the  little  diamond-eyed  child  lying  in  the 
old  black  woman’s  arms,  with  the  coral  necklace 
round  her  throat  and  the  rattle  in  her  hand. 

He  would  not  die  by  his  own  act.  It  was  not 
the  way  in  his  family.  There  may  have  been 
other,  perhaps  better  reasons,  but  this  was 
enough ;  he  did  not  come  of  suicidal  stock. 
He  must  live  for  this  child’s  sake,  at  any  rate ; 
and  yet,  —  oh,  yet,  who  could  tell  with  what 
thoughts  he  looked  upon  her  ?  Sometimes  her 
little  features  would  look  placid,  and  something 
like  a  smile  would  steal  over  them ;  then  all  his 
tender  feelings  would  rush  up  into  his  eyes,  and 
tie  would  put  his  arms  out  to  take  her  from  the 
old  woman,  —  but  all  at  once  her^eyes  would 
narrow  and  she  would  throw  her  head  back 


ELSIE  VEKNER. 


341 


and  a  snudder  would  seize  him  as  he  stooped 
over  his  child,  —  he  could  not  look  upon  her,  —  •  . 
he  could  not  touch  his  lips  to  her  cheek;  nay^ 
there  would  sometimes  come  into  his  soul  such 
frightful  suggestions  that  he  would  hurry  from 
the  room  lest  the  hinted  thought  should  become 
a  momentary  madness  and  he  should  lift  his 
hand  against  the  hapless  infant  which  owed  him 
life. 

In  those  miserable  days  he  used  to  wander  all 
over  The  Mountain  in  his  restless  endeavor  to 
seek  some  relief  for  inward/suffering  ir.  outward/ 
action.  He  had  no  thought  of  throwing  himself 
from  the  summit  of  any  of  the  broken  cliffs,  but 
he  clambered  over  them  recklessly,  as  having  no 
particular  care  for  his  life.  Sometimes  he  would 
go  into  the  accursed  district  where  the  venomous 
reptiles  were  always  to  be  dreaded,  and  court 
their  worst  haunts,  and  kill  all  he  could  come 
near  with  a  kind  of  blind  fury  which  was  strange 
in  a  person  of  his  gentle  nature. 

One  overhanging  cliff  was  a  favorite  haunt 
of  his.  It  frowned  upon  his  home  beneath  in 
a  very  menacing  way;  he  noticed  slight  seams 
and  fissures  that  looked  ominous;  —  what  would 
happen,  if  it  broke  off  some  time  or  other  and 
came  crashing  down  on  the  fields  and  roofs 
below?  He  thought  of  such  a  possible  catas¬ 
trophe  with  a  singular  indifference,  in  fact  with 
a  feeling  almost  like  pleasure.  It  would  be  such 
a  swift  and  thorough  solution  of  this  great  prob- 


542 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


lem  of  life  he  was  working  out  in  ever-recurring 
daily  anguish !  The  remote  possibility  of  such 
a  catastrophe  had  frightened  some  timid  dwellers 
beneath  The  Mountain  to  other  places  of  resi¬ 
dence  ;  here  the  danger  was  most  imminent,  and 
yet  he  loved  to  dwell  upon  the  chances  of  its 
occurrence.  Danger  is  often  the  best  counter- 
irritant  in  cases  of  mental  suffering;  he  found 
a  solace  in  careless  exposure  of  his  life,  and 
learned  to  endure  the  trials  of  each  day  better 
by  dwelling  in  imagination  on  the  possibility 
that  it  might  be  the  last  for  him  and  the  home 
that  was  his. 

Time,  the  great  consoler,  helped  these  influ¬ 
ences,  and  he  gradually  fell  into  more  easy  and 
less  dangerous  habits  of  life.  He  ceased  from 
his  more  perilous  rambles.  He  thought  less  of 
the  danger  from  the  great  overhanging  rocks  and 
forests  ;  they  had  hung  there  for  centuries ;  it  was 
not  very  likely  they  would  crash  or  slide  in  his 
time.  He  became  accustomed  to  all  Elsie’s 
strange  looks  and  ways.  Old  Sophy  dressed 
her  with  ruffles  round  her  neck,  and  hunted  up 
the  red  coral  branch  with  silver  bells  which  the 
little  toothless  Dudleys  had  bitten  upon  for  a 
hundred  years.  By  an  infinite  effort,  her  fathei 
forced  himself  to  becpme  the  companion  of  this 
child,  for  whom  he  had  such  a  mingled  feeling 
but  whose  presence  was  always  a  trial  to  him 
and  often  a  terror. 

At  a  cost  which  no  human  being  could  esti 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


343 


mate,  he  had  done  his  duty,  and  in  some  degree 
reaped  his  reward.  Elsie  grew  up  with  a  kind  of^ 
filial  feeling  for  him,  such  as  her  nature  was  capa¬ 
ble  of.  She  never  would  obey  him  ;  that  was  not 
to  be  looked  for.  Commands,  threats,  punish¬ 
ments,  were  ont  of  the  question  with  her;  the 
mere  physical  effects  of  crossing  her  will  betrayed 
themselves  in  such  changes  of  expression  and 
manner  that  it  would  have  been  senseless  to  at¬ 
tempt  to  govern  her  in  any  such  way.  Leaving 
her  mainly  to  herself,  she  could  be  to  some  extent 
indirectly  influenced,  —  not  ^otherwise.  She  called 
her  father  “  Dudley,”  as  if  he  had  been  her  brother. 
She  ordered  everybody  and  would  be  ordered  by 
none. 

Who  could  know  all  these  things,  except  the 
few  people  of  the  household  ?  What  wonder, 
therefore,  that  ignorant  and  shallow  persons  laid 
the  blame  on  her  father  of  those  peculiarities 
which  were  freely  talked  about,  —  of  those  darker 
tendencies  which  were  hinted  of  in  whispers  ? 
To  all  this  talk,  so  far  as  it  reached  him,  he  was 
supremely  indifferent,  not  only  with  the  indiffer¬ 
ence  which  all  gentlemen  feel  to  the  gossip  of 
their  inferiors,  but  with  a  charitable  calmness 
which  did  not  wonder  or  blame.  He  knew  that 
his  position  was  not  simply  a  difficult,  but  an  im¬ 
possible  one,  and  schooled  himself  to  bear  his  des¬ 
tiny  as  well  as  he  might,  and  report  himself  only 
Headquarters. 

He  had  grown  gentle  under  this  discipline 


844 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


His  hair  was  jast  beginning  to  be  touched  witL 
silver,  and  his  expression  was  that  of  habitual 
sadness  and  anxiety.  He  had  no  counsellor,  as 
we  have  seen,  to  turn  to,  who  did  not  know  eithei 
too  much  or  too  little.  He  had  no  heart  to  rest 
upon  and  into  which  he  might  unburden  himself 
of  the  secrets  and  the  sorrows  that  were  aching  in 
his  own  breast.  Yet  he  had  not  allowed  himself 
to  run  to  waste  in  the  long  time  since  he  was  left 
alone  to  his  trials  and  fears.  He  had  resisted  the 
seductions  which  always  beset  solitary  men  with 
restless  brains  overwrought  by  depressing  agen¬ 
cies.  He  disguised  no  misery  to  himself  with  the 
lying  delusion  of  wine.  He  sought  no  sleep  from 
narcotics,  though  he  lay  with  throbbing,  wide-open 
eyes  through  all  the  weary  hours  of  the  night. 

It  was  understood  between  Dudley  Yenner  and 
old  Doctor  Kittredge  that  Elsie  was  a  subject  of 
occasional  medical  observation,  on  account  of  cer¬ 
tain  mental  peculiarities  which  might  end  in  a 
permanent  affection  of  her  reason.  Beyond  this 
nothing  was  said,  whatever  may  have  been  in  the 
mind  of  either.  But  Dudley  Venner  had  studied 
Elsie’s  case  in  the  light  of  all  the  books  he  could 
find  which  might  do  anything  towards  explaining 
it.  As  in  all  cases  where  men  meddle  with  med¬ 
ical  science  for  a  special  purpose,  having  no  pre¬ 
vious  acquaintance  with  it,  his  imagination  found 
what  it  wanted  in  the  books  he  read,  and  adjusted 
it  to  the  facts  before  him.  So  it  was  he  came  tc 
cherish  those  two  fancies  before  alluded  to  :  that 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


345 


the  ominous  birth-mark  she  had  carried  from  m 
fancy  might  fade  and  become  obliterated,  and  that 
the  age  of  complete  maturity  might  be  signalized 
by  an  entire  change  in  her  physical  and  mental 
state.  He  held  these  vague  hopes  as  all  of  us 
nurse  our  only  half-believed  illusions.  Not  for 
the  world  would  he  have  questioned  his  sagacious 
old  medical  friend  as  to  the  probability  or  possi¬ 
bility  of  their  being  true.  We  are  very  shy  of 
asking  questions  of  those  who  know  enough  to 
destroy  with  on*j  word  the  hopes  we  live  on. 

In  this  life  of  comparative  seclusion  to  which; 
the  father  had  doomed  himself  for  the  sake  of  his 
child,  he  had  found  time  for  large  and  varied 
reading.  The  learned  Judge  Thornton  confessed 
himself  surprised  at  the  extent  of  Dudley  Ven- 
ner’s  information.  Doctor  Kittredge  found  that 
he  was  in  advance  of  him  in  the  knowledge  of 
recent  physiological  discoveries.  He  had  taken 
pains  to  become  acquainted  with  agricultural 
chemistry  ;  and  the  neighboring  farmers  owed  him 
some  useful  hints  about  the  management  of  their 
land.  He  renewed  his  old  acquaintance  with  the 
classic  authors.  He  loved  to  warm  his  pulses 
with  Homer  and  calm  them  down  with  Horace. 
He  received  all  manner  of  new  books  and  period¬ 
icals,  and  gradually  gained  an  interest  in  the 
events  of  the  passing  time.  Yet  he  remained  al¬ 
most  a  hermit,  not  absolutely  refusing  to  see  his 
neighbors,  nor  ever  churlish  towards  them,  but  on 
die  other  hand  not  cultivating  any  intimate  rela¬ 
tions  with  them. 


346 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


He  had  retired  from  the  world  a  young  mail 
little  more  than  a  youth,  indeed,  with  sentiments 
and  aspirations  all  of  them  suddenly  extinguished. 
The  first  had  bequeathed  him  a  single  huge  sor¬ 
row,  the  second  a  single  trying  duty.  In  due 
time  the  anguish  had  lost  something  of  its  poig¬ 
nancy,  the  light  of  earlier  and  happier  memories 
had  begun  to  struggle  with  and  to  soften  its  thick 
darkness,  and  even  that  duty  which  he  had  con¬ 
fronted  with  such  an  effort  had  become  an  endur¬ 
able  habit. 

At  a  period  of  life  when  many  have  been  living 
on  the  capital  of  their  acquired  knowledge  and 
their  youthful  stock  of  sensibilities  until  their 
intellects  are  really  shallower  and  their  hearts 
emptier  than  they  were  at  twenty,  Dudley  Ven- 
ner  was  stronger  in  thought  and  tenderer  in  soul 
than  in  the  first  freshness  of  his  youth,  when  he 
counted  but  half  his  present  years.  He  had  en¬ 
tered  that  period  which  marks  the  decline  of  men 
who  have  ceased  growing  in  knowledge  and 
-strength :  from  forty  to  fifty  a  man  must  move 
upward,  or  the  natural  falling  off  in  the  vigor  of 
Life  will  carry  him  rapidly  downward.  At  this 
time  his  inward  nature  was  richer  and  deeper 
than  in  any  earlier  period  of  his  life.  If  he  could 
only  be  summoned  to  action,  he  was  capable  of 
noble  service.  If  his  sympathies  could  only  find 
an  outlet,  he  was  never  so  capable  of  love  as 
tow ;  for  his  natural  affections  had  been  gather¬ 
ing  in  the  course  of  all  these  years,  and  the  trace* 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


347 


Di  that  ineffaceable  calamity  of  his  life  were  soft¬ 
ened  and  partially  hidden  by  new  growths  oL 
thought  and  feeling,  as  the  wreck  left  by  a  moun¬ 
tain-slide  is  covered  over  by  the  gentle  intrusion 
of  the  soft-stemmed  herbs  which  will  prepare  it 
for  the  stronger  vegetation  that  will  bring  it 
once  more  into  harmony  with  the  peaceful  slopes 
around  it. 

Perhaps  Dudley  Venner  had  not  gained  so 
much  in  worldly  wisdom  as  if  he  had  been  more 
in  society  and  less  in  his  study.  The  indulgence 
with  which  he  treated  his  nephew  was,  no  doub^, 
imprudent.  A  man  more  in  the  habit  of  dealing 
with  men  would  have  been  more  guarded  with  a 
person  with  Dick’s  questionable  story  and  unques¬ 
tionable  physiognomy.  But  he  was  singularly 
unsuspicious,  and  his  natural  kindness  was  an 
additional  motive  to  the  wish  for  introducing 
some  variety  into  the  routine  of  Elsie’s  life. 

If  Dudley  Venner  did  not  know  just  what  he 
wanted  at  this  period  of  his  life,  there  were  a 
great  many  people  in  the  town  of  Rockland  who 
thought  they  did  know.  He  had  been  a  widower 
long  enough,  —  nigh  twenty  year,  wa’n’t  it  ? 
He’d  been  aout  to  Spraowles’s  party,  —  there 
wa’n’t  anything  to  hender  him  why  he  shouldn’t 
stir  raound  l’k  other  folks.  What  was  the  reason 
he  didn’t  go  abaout  to  taown-meetin’s  ’n’  Sahbath- 
rneetin’s,  ’n’  lyceums,  ’n’  school  ’xaminations,  ’n' 
B’prise-parties,  ’n’  funerals, —  and  other  entertain 
ments  where  the  still-faced  two-story  folks  were  in 


348 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  habit  of  looking  round  to  see  if  any  of  the 
mansion-house  gentry  were  present?  —  Fac’  was, 
he  was  livin’  too  lonesome  daown  there  at  the 
mausion-haouse.  Why  shouldn’t  he  make  up  to 
the  Jedge’s  daughter  ?  She  was  genteel  enough 
for  him  and — let’s  see,  haow  old  was  she? 
Seven-’n’-twenty,  —  no,  six-’n’ -twenty,  —  born  the 
same  year  we  buried  aour  little  Anny  Mari’. 

There  was  no  possible  objection  to  this  arrange¬ 
ment,  if  the  parties  interested  had  seen  fit  to 
make  it  or  even  to  think  of  it.  But  u  Portia,”  as 
some  of  the  mansion-house  people  called  her,  did 
not  happen  to  awaken  the  elective  affinities  of  the 
lonely  widower.  He  met  her  once  in  a  while,  and 
said  to  himself  that  she  was  a  good  specimen  of 
the  grand  style  of  woman ;  and  then  the  image 
came  back  to  him  of  a  woman  not  quite  so  large, 
not  quite  so  imperial  in  her  port,  not  quite  so  in¬ 
cisive  in  her  speech,  not  quite  so  judicial  in  her 
opinions,  but  with  two  or  three  more  joints  in  her 
frame,  and  two  or  three  soft  inflections  in  her 
voice,  which  for  some  absurd  reason  or  other  drew 
him  to  her  side  and  so  bewitched  him  that  he  told 
her  half  his  secrets  and  looked  into  her  eyes  all 
that  he  could  not  tell,  in  less  time  than  it  would 
have  taken  him  to  discuss  the  champion  paper  of 
tne  last  Quarterly  with  the  admirable  “  Portia.” 
lieu ,  quanto  -  minus  !  How  much  more  was  that 
lost  image  to  him  than  all  it  left  on  earth  ! 

The  study  of  love  is  very  much  like  that  oi 
meteorology.  We  know  that  just  about  so  much 


ELSIE  YENKER. 


343 


rain  will  fall  in  a  season  ;  but  on  what  particular 
lay  it  will  shower  is  more  than  we  can  tell.  We-^. 
inow  that  just  about  so  much  love  will  be  made 
«wery  year  in  a  given  population  ;  but  who  will 
,ain  his  young  affections  upon  the  heart  of  whom 
.s  not  known  except  to  the  astrologers  and  for- 
.une-tellers.  And  why  rain  falls  as  it  does,  and 
why  love  is  made  just  as  it  is,  are  equally  puzzling 
questions. 

The  woman  a  man  loves  is  always  his  uwn  v 
daughter,  far  more  his  daughter  than  the  female 
children  bom  to  him  by  the  /Common  law  of  life./ 
Ii  is  not  the  outside  woman,  who  takes  his  name, 
ihat  he  loves :  before  her  image  has  reached  the 
centre  of  his  consciousness,  it  has  passed  through 
fifty  many-layered  nerve-strainers,  been  churned 
over  by  ten  thousand  pulse-beats,  and  reacted 
upon  by  millions  of  lateral  impulses  which  bandy 
it  about  through  the  mental  spaces  as  a  reflection 
is  sent  back  and  forward  in  a  saloon  lined  with 
mirrors.  With  this  altered  image  of  the  woman 
before  him,  his  preexisting  ideal  becomes  blended. 
The  object  of  his  love  is  in  part  the  offspring  of 
her  legal  parents,  but  more  of  her  lover’s  brain. 
The  difference  between  the  real  and  the  ideal  ob¬ 
jects  of  love  must  not  exceed  a  fixed  maximum. 
The  heart’s  vision  cannot  unite  them  stereoscopi- 
cally  into  a  single  image,  if  the  divergence  pass¬ 
es  certain  limits.  A  formidable  analogy,  much 
in  the  nature  of  a  proof,  with  very  serious  con¬ 
sequences,  which  moralists  and  match-makers 


350 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


would  do  well  to  remember!  Double  vision 
with  the  eyes  of  the  heart  is  a  dangerous  phys¬ 
iological  state,  and  may  lead  to  missteps  and 
serious  falls. 

Whether  Dudley  Venner  would  ever  find  a 
breathing  image  near  enough  to  his  ideal  one,  to 
fill  the  desolate  chamber  of  his  heart,  or  not,  was 
very  doubtful.  Some  gracious  and  gentle  wom¬ 
an,  whose  influence  would  steal  upon  him  as  the 
first  low  words  of  prayer  after  that  interval  of 
silent  mental  supplication  known  to  one  of  our 
simpler  forms  of  public  worship,  gliding  into  his 
consciousness  without  hurting  its  old  griefs,  her¬ 
self  knowing  the  chastening  of  sorrow,  and  sub¬ 
dued  into  sweet  acquiescence  with  the  Divine  will, 
—  some  such  woman  as  this,  if  Heaven  should 
send  him  such,  might  call  him  back  to  the  world 
of  happiness,  from  which  he  seemed  forever  ex¬ 
iled.  He  could  never  again  be  the  young  lover 
who  walked  through  the  garden-alleys  all  red  with 
roses  in  the  old  dead  and  buried  June  of  long  ago. 
He  could  never  forget  the  bride  of  his  youth, 
whose  image,  growing  phantom-like  with  the 
lapse  of  years,  hovered  over  him  like  a  dream 
while  waking  and  like  a  reality  in  dreams.  But 
if  it  might  be  in  God’s  good  providence  that  this 
desolate  life  should  come  under  the  influence  of 
human  affections  once  more,  what  an  ecstasy  of 
renewed  existence  was  in  store  for  him !  His  life 
had  not;  all  been  buried  under  that  narrow  ridge 
•f  turf  with  the  white  stone  at  its  head.  IJ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


851 


aeemed  so  for  a  while ;  but  it  was  not  and  could 
not  and  ought  not  to  be  so.  His  first  passioifi~ 
had  been  a  true  and  pure  one ;  there  was  no  spot 
or  stain  upon  it.  With  all  his  grief  there  blended 
no  cruel  recollection  of  any  word  or  look  he 
would  have  wished  to  forget.  All  those  little  dif« 
ferences,  such  as  young  married  people  with  any 
individual  flavor  in  their  characters  must  have,  if 
they  are  tolerably  mated,  had  only  added  to  the 
music  of  existence,  as  the  lesser  discords  admitted 
into  some  perfect  symphony,  fitly  resolved,  add 
richness  and  strength  to  the7  whole  harmonious 
movement.  It  was  a  deep  wound  that  Fate  had 
inflicted  on  him ;  nay,  it  seemed  like  a  mortal 
one ;  but  the  weapon  was  clean,  and  its  edge  was 
smooth.  Such  wounds  must  heal  with  time  in 
healthy  natures,  whatever  a  false  sentiment  may 
say,  by  the  wise  and  beneficent  law  of  our  being. 
The  recollection  of  a  deep  and  true  affection  is 
rather  a  divine  nourishment  for  a  life  to  grow 
strong  upon  than  a  poison  to  destroy  it. 

Dudley  Venner’s  habitual  sadness  could  not  be 
laid  wholly  to  his  early  bereavement.  It  was 
partly  the  result  of  the  long  struggle  between  nat¬ 
ural  affection  and  duty,  on  one  side,  and  the  in¬ 
voluntary  tendencies  these  had  to  overcome,  on 
the  other,  —  between  hope  and  fear,  so  long  in 
conflict  that  despair  itself  would  have  been  like 
an  anodyne,  and  he  would  have  slept  upon  some 
final  catastrophe  with  the  heavy  sleep  of  a  bank- 
*upt  after  his  failure  is  proclaimed.  Alas  !  some 


I 


852  ELSIE  VENNER. 

new  affection  might  perhaps  rekindle  the  fires  of 
youth  in  his  heart;  but  what  power  could  calm 
that  haggard  terror  of  the  parent  which  rose  with 
every  morning’s  sun  and  watched  with  every  even¬ 
ing  star, —  what  power  save  alone  that  of  him 
who  comes  bearing  the  inverted  torch,  and  leav¬ 
ing  after  him  only  the  ashes  printed  with  his  foot/* 
steps  ? 


F.LillE  VENNEB. 


853 


CHAPTER  XXL 


THE  WIDOW  RO WENS  GIVES  A  TEA-PARTT. 


There  was  a  good  deal  of  interest  felt,  as 
has  been  said,  in  the  lonely  condition  of  Dud- 
ley  Venner  in  that  fine  mansion-house  of  his,  and  ^ 
with  that  strange  daughter,  who  would  never  be 
married,  as  many  people  thought,  in  spite  of  all 
the  stories.  The  feelings  expressed  by  the  good 
folks  who  dated  from  the  time  when  they  u buried 
aour  little  Anny  Mari’,”  and  others  of  that  home- 
spun  stripe,  were  founded  in  reason,  after  all. 
And  so  it  was  natural  enough  that  they  should 
be  shared  by  various  ladies,  who,  having  conju¬ 
gated  the  verb  to  live  as  far  as  the  preterpluper- 
fect  tense,  were  ready  to  change  one  of  its  vowels 
and  begin  with  it  in  the  present  indicative.  Un¬ 
fortunately,  there  was  very  little  chance  of  show¬ 
ing  sympathy  in  its  active  form  for  a  gentleman 
who  kept  himself  so  much  out  of  the  way  as  the 
master  of  the  Dudley  Mansion. 

Various  attempts  had  been  made,  from  time  to 
time,  of  late  years,  to  get  him  out  of  his  study, 
Which  had,  for  the  most  part,  proved  failures.  It 
Was  a  surprise,  therefore,  when  he  was  seen  at 

23 


354 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  Great  Party  at  the  ColoneFs.  But  it  was  an 
encouragement  to  try  him  again,  and  the  conse¬ 
quence  had  been  that  he  had  received  a  numbei 
of  notes  inviting  him  to  various  smaller  enter 
fcainments,  which,  as  neither  he  nor  Elsie  had  any 
fancy  for  them,  he  had  politely  declined. 

Such  was  the  state  of  things  when  he  received 
an  invitation  to  take  tea  sociably ,  with  a  few 
friends ,  at  Hyacinth  Cottage,  the  residence  of 
the  Widow  Rowens,  relict  of  the  late  Beeri 
Rowens,  Esquire,  better  known  as  Major  Row¬ 
ens.  Major  Rowens  was  at  the  time  of  his 
decease  a  promising  officer  in  the  militia,  in 
the  direct  line  of  promotion,  as  his  waistband 
was  getting  tighter  every  year ;  and,  as  all  the 
world  knows,  the  militia-officer  who  splits  off 
most  buttons  and  fills  the  largest  sword-belt 
stands  the  best  chance  of  rising,  or,  perhaps  we 
might  say,  spreading,  to  be  General. 

Major  Rowens  united  in  his  person  certain 
other  traits  which  help  a  man  to  eminence  in 
the  branch  of  public  service  referred  to.  He  ran 
to  high  colors,  to  wide  whiskers,  to  open  pores 
ae  had  the  saddle-leather  skin  common  in  Eng- 
lishmen,  rarer  in  Americans,  —  never  found  in 
the  Brahmin  caste,  oftener  in  the  military  and 
the  commodores :  observing  people  know  what 

is  meant ;  blow  the  seed-arrows  from  the  white- 

< 

kid-looking  button  which  holds  them  on  a  dan 
delion-stalk,  and  the  pricked-pincushion  surface 
shows  you  what  to  look  for.  He  had  the  loud 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


355 


graft  voice  which  implies  the  right  to  com¬ 
mand.  He  had  the  thick  hand,  stubbed  fin-^ 
gers,  with  bristled  pads  between  their  joints, 
square,  broad  thumb-nails,  and  sturdy  limbs, 
which  mark  a  constitution  made  to  use  in 
rough  out-door  work.  He  had  the  never-failing 
predilection  for  showy  switch-tailed  horses  that 
step  high,  and  sidle  about,  and  act  as  if  they 
were  going  to  do  something  fearful  the  next  min¬ 
ute,  in  the  face  of  awed  and  admiring  multi¬ 
tudes  gathered  at  mighty  musters  or  imposing 
cattle-shows.  He  had  no  objection,  either,  to  7 " 
holding  the  reins  in  a  wagon  behind  another 
kind  of  horse,  —  a  slouching,  listless  beast,  with 
a  strong  slant  to  his  shoulder  and  a  notable/ 
depth  to  his  quarter  and  an  emphatic  angle  at 
the  hock,  who  commonly  walked  or  lounged 
along  in  a  lazy  trot  of  five  or  six  miles  an  hour; 
but,  if  a  lively  colt  happened  to  come  rattling 
up  alongside,  or  a  brandy-faced  old  horse-jockey 
took  the  road  to  show  off  a  fast  nag,  and  threw 
his  dust  into  the  Major’s  face,  would  pick  his 
legs  up  all  at  once,  and  straighten  his  body  out, 
and  swing  off  into  a  three-minute  gait,  in  a  way 
that  "  Old  Blue  ”  himself  need  not  have  been 
ashamed  of. 

For  some  reason  which  must  be  left  to  the 
next  generation  of  professors  to  find  out,  the  men 
who  are  knowing  in  horse-flesh  have  an  eye  also 
for, - let  a  long  dash  separate  the  brute  crea¬ 

tion  from  the  angelic  being  now  to  be  named, — 


556 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


for  lovely  woman.  Of  this  fact  there  can  be 
no  possible  doubt;  and  therefore  you  shall  no¬ 
tice,  that,  if  a  fast  horse  trots  before  two,  one 
of  the  twain  is  apt  to  be  a  pretty  bit  of  mulieb¬ 
rity,  with  shapes  to  her,  and  eyes  Hying  about 
in  all  directions. 

Major  Rowens,  at  that  time  Lieutenant  of 
the  Rockland  Fusileers,  had  driven  and  “traded” 
horses  not  a  few  before  he  turned  his  acquired 
skill  as  a  judge  of  physical  advantages  in  another 
direction.  He  knew  a  neat,  snug  hoof,  a  deli¬ 
cate  pastern,  a  broad  haunch,  a  deep  chest,  a 
close  ribbed-up  barrel,  as  well  as  any  other  man 
in  the  town.  He  was  not  to  be  taken  in  by 
your  thick-jointed,  heavy-headed  cattle,  without 
any  go  to  them,  that  suit  a  country-parson,  nor 
yet  by  the  “  gaanted-up,”  long-legged  animals, 
with  all  their  constitutions  bred  out  of  them, 
such  as  rich  greenhorns  buy  and  cover  up  with 
their  plated  trappings. 

Whether  his  equine  experience  was  of  any  use 
to  him  in  the  selection  of  the  mate  with  whom 
he  was  to  go  in  double  harness  so  long  as  they 
both  should  live,  we  need  not  stop  to  question. 
At  any  rate,  nobody  could  find  fault  with  the 
points  of  Miss  Marilla  Van  Deusen,  to  whom  he 
offered  the  privilege  of  becoming  Mrs.  Rower.s. 
The  Van  must  have  been  crossed  out  of  her 
blood,  for  she  was  an  out-and-out  brunette 
with  hair  and  eyes  black  enough  for  a  Mo 
hawk’s  daughter.  A  fine  style  of  woman,  wit* 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


357 


very  striking  tints  and  outlines,  —  an  excellent 
match  for  the  Lieutenant,  except  for  one  thingPX 
She  was  marked  by  Nature  for  a  widow.  She 
was  evidently  got  up  for  mourning,  and  never 
looked  so  well  as  in  deep  black,  with  jet  orna¬ 
ments. 

The  man  who  should  dare  to  marry  her  would 
doom  himself ;  for  how  could  she  become  the 
widow  she  was  bound  to  be,  unless  he  would  re¬ 
tire  and  give  her  a  chance  ?  The  Lieutenant 
lived,  however,  as  we  have  seen,  to  become  Cap¬ 
tain  and  then  Major,  with  prospects  of  further  7 
advancement.  But  Mrs.  Bowens  often  said  she 
should  never  look  well  in  colors.  At  last  her'cTes- 
tiny  fulfilled  itself,  and  the  justice  of  Nature  was 
vindicated.  Major  Rowens  got  overheated  gallop¬ 
ing  about  the  field  on  the  day  of  the  Great  Mus¬ 
ter,  and  had  a  rush  of  blood  to  the  head,  according 
to  the  common  report,  —  at  any  rate,  something 
which  stopped  him  short  in  his  career  of  expan¬ 
sion  and  promotion,  and  established  Mrs.  Rowens 
in  her  normal  condition  of  widowhood. 

The  Widow  Rowens  was  now  in  the  full 
bloom  of  ornamental  sorrow.  A  very  shallow 
crape  bonnet,  frilled  and  froth-like,  allowed  the 
parted  raven  hair  to  show  its  glossy  smooth¬ 
ness.  A  jet  pin  heaved  upon  her  bosom  with 
every  sigh  of  memory,  oi  emotion  of  unknown 
origin.  Jet  bracelets  shone  with  every  movement 
of  her  slender  hands,  cased  in  close-fitting  black 
gloves.  Her  sable  dress  was  ridged  with  mani- 


558 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


fold  flounces,  from  beneath  which  a  small  foo' 
showed  itself  from  time  to  time,  clad  in  the  same 
hue  of  mourning.  Everything  about  her  was 
dark,  except  the  whites  of  her  eyes  and  the 
enamel  of  her  teeth.  The  effect  was  complete, 
Gray’s  Elegy  was  not  a  more  perfect  composi¬ 
tion. 

Much  as  the  Widow  was  pleased  with  the  cos¬ 
tume  belonging  to  her  condition,  she  did  not 
disguise  from  herself  that  under  certain  circum¬ 
stances  she  might  be  willing  to  change  her  name 
again.  Thus,  for  instance,  if  a  gentleman  not 
too  far  gone  in  maturity,  of  dignified  exterior, 
with  an  ample  fortune,  and  of  unexceptionable 
character,  should  happen  to  set  his  heart  upon 
her,  and  the  only  way  to  make  him  happy  was  to 
give  up  her  weeds  and  go  into  those  unbecoming 
colors  again  for  his  sake,  —  why,  she  felt  that  it 
was  in  her  nature  to  make  the  sacrifice.  By  a 
singular  coincidence  it  happened  that  a  gentle¬ 
man  was  now  living  in  Rockland  who  united  in 
himself  all  these  advantages.  Who  he  was,  the 
sagacious  reader  may  very  probably  have  divined. 
Just  to  see  how  it  looked,  one  day,  having  bolted 
her  door,  and  drawn  the  curtains  close,  and 
glanced  under  the  sofa,  and  listened  at  the  key¬ 
hole  to  be  sure  there  was  nobody  in  the  entry,  — 
iust  to  see  how  it  looked,  she  had  taken  out  an 
tnvelope  and  written  on  the  back  of  it  Mrs .  Ma¬ 
nila  Venner.  It  made  her  head  swim  and  hei 
knees  tremble.  What  if  she  should  faint,  of 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


359 


die,  or  have  a  stroke  of  palsy,  and  they  should 
break  into  the  room  and  find  that  name  written  ^ 
How  she  caught  it  up  and  tore  it  into  little 
shreds,  and  then  could  not  be  easy  until  she  had 
burned  the  small  heap  of  pieces !  But  these  are 
things  which  every  honorable  reader  will  consider 
imparted  in  strict  confidence. 

The  Widow  Bowens,  though  not  of  the  man* 
Bion-house  set,  was  among  the  most  genteel  of 
the  two-story  circle,  and  was  in  the  habit  of  vis¬ 
iting  some  of  the  great  people.  In  one  of  these 
visits  she  met  a  dashing  young  fellow  with  an  y 
olive  complexion  at  the  house  of  a  professional 
gentleman  who  had  married  one  of  the  'ft'hite 
necks  and  pairs  of  fat  arms  from  a  distinguished  1 
family  before  referred  to.  The  professional  gen¬ 
tleman  himself  was  out,  but  the  lady  introduced 
the  olive-complexioned  young  man  as  Mr.  Bich¬ 
ard  Venner. 

The  Widow  was  particularly  pleased  with  this 
accidental  meeting.  Had  heard  Mr.  Venner’s 
name  frequently  mentioned.  Hoped  his  uncle 
was  well,  and  his  charming  cousin,  —  was  she  as 
original  as  ever  ?  Had  often  admired  that  charm¬ 
ing  creature  he  rode :  we  had  had  some  fine 
horses.  Had  never  got  over  her  taste  for  riding, 
but  could  find  nobody  that  liked  a  good  long  gal¬ 
lop  since - well — she  couldn’t  help  wishing 

she  was  alongside  oF  nim,  the  other  day,  when 
•he  saw  him  dashing  by,  just  at  twilight. 

The  Widow  paused ;  lifted  a  flimsy  handker* 


360 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


chief  with  a  very  deep  black  border  so  as  to  play 
the  jet  bracelet;  pushed  the  tip  of  her  slender  foot 
beyond  the  lowest  of  her  black  flounces ;  looked 
up ;  looked  down ;  looked  at  Mr.  Richard,  the 
very  picture  of  artless  simplicity,  —  as  represented 
in  well-played  genteel  comedy. 

"  A  good  bit  of  stuff,”  Dick  said  to  himself, — 
w  and  something  of  it  left  yet ;  caramba  !  ”  Tht 
Major  had  not  studied  points  for  nothing,  and  the 
Widow  was  one  of  the  right  sort.  The  young 
man  had  been  a  little  restless  of  late,  and  was 
willing  to  vary  his  routine  by  picking  up  an  ac¬ 
quaintance  here  and  there.  So  he  took  the  Wid¬ 
ow’s  hint.  He  should  like  to  have  a  scamper  of 
half  a  dozen  miles  with  her  some  fine  morning. 

The  Widow  was  infinitely  obliged  ;  was  not 
sure  that  she  could  find  any  horse  in  the  village 
to  suit  her  ;  but  it  was  so  kind  in  him  !  Would 
he  not  call  at  Hyacinth  Cottage,  and  let  her 
thank  him  again  there  ? 

Thus  began  an  acquaintance  which  the  Wid¬ 
ow  made  the  most  of,  and  on  the  strength  of 
which  she  determined  to  give  a  tea-party  and 
invite  a  number  of  persons  of  whom  we  know 
something  already.  She  took  a  half-sheet  of 
note-paper  and  made  out  her  list  as  carefully  as  a 
country  u  merchant’s  ”  “  clerk  ”  adds  up  two  and 
threepence  (New-England  nomenclature)  and 
twelve  and  a  half  cents,  figure  by  figure,  and 
fraction  by  fraction,  before  he  can  be  sure  they 
will  make  half  a  dollar,  without  cheating  some* 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


36] 


body.  After  much  consideration  the  list  reduced 
itself  to  the  following  names  :  Mr  Richard  Yen-  v 
ner  and  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  the  lady  at  whose 
house  she  had  met  him,  —  mansion-house  breed, 

« — but  will  come,  —  soft  on  Dick;  Dudley  Ven- 
ner, — take  care  of  him  herself;  Elsie,  —  Dick 
will  see  to  her,  —  won’t  it  fidget  the  Creamer 
woman  to  see  him  round  her  ?  the  old  Doctor,  — 
he’s  always  handy ;  and  there’s  that  young  mas¬ 
ter  there,  up  at  the  school,  —  know  him  well 
enough  to  ask  him,  —  oh,  yes,  he’ll  come.  One, 
two,  three,  four,  five,  six,  —  seven  ;  not  room  / 
enough,  without  the  leaf  in  the  table  ;  one  place 
empty,  if  the  leaf’s  in.  Let’s  see,  —  Helen  Dar-  i 
ley,  —  she’ll  do  well  enough  to  fill  it  upy — why, 
yes,  just  the  thing,  —  light  brown  hair,  blue  eyes, 
—  won’t  my  pattern  show  off  well  against  her  ? 
Put  her  down,  —  she’s  worth  her  tea  and  toast 
ten  times  over,  —  nobody  knows  what  a  “  thun- 
der-and-lightning  woman,”  as  poor  Major  used  to 
have  it,  is,  till  she  gets  alongside  of  one  of  those 
old-maidish  girls,  with  hair  the  color  of  brown 
sugar,  and  eyes  like  the  blue  of  a  teacup. 

The  Widow  smiled  with  a  feeling  of  triumph 
at  having  overcome  her  difficulties  and  arranged 
her  party,  —  arose  and  stood  before  her  glass, 
three-quarters  front,  one-quarter  profile,  so  as  to 
show  the  whites  of  the  eyes  and  the  down  of  the 
upper  lip.  “  Splendid  !  ”  said  the  Widow  — and 
tell  the  truth,  she  was  not  far  out  of  the  way 
and  with  Helen  Darley  as  a  foil  anybody  would 


562 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


know  she  must  be  foudroyant  and  pyramidal,  — 
if  these  French  adjectives  may  be  naturalized  for 
this  one  particular  exigency. 

So  the  Widow  sent  out  her  notes.  The  black 
grief  which  had  filled  her  heart  and  overflowed  in 
surges  of  crape  around  her  person  had  left  a  de¬ 
posit  half  an  inch  wide  at  the  margin  of  her 
note-paper.  Her  seal  was  a  small  youth  with  an 
inverted  torch,  the  same  on  which  Mrs.  Blanche 
Creamer  made  her  spiteful  remark,  that  she  ex¬ 
pected  to  see  that  boy  of  the  Widow’s  standing 
on  his  head  yet ;  meaning,  as  Dick  supposed,  that 
she  would  get  the  torch  right-side  up  as  soon  as 
she  had  a  chance.  That  was  after  Dick  had 
made  the  Widow’s  acquaintance,  and  Mrs. 
Creamer  had  got  it  into  her  foolish  head  that  she 
would  marry  that  young  fellow,  if  she  could  catch 
him.  How  could  he  ever  come  to  fancy  such  a 
quadroon-looking  thing  as  that,  she  should  like  to 
know  ? 

It  is  easy  enough  to  ask  seven  people  to  a 
party ;  but  whether  they  will  come  or  not  is  an 
open  question,  as  it  was  in  the  case  of  the  spirits  of 
the  vasty  deep.  If  the  note  issues  from  a  three- 
fctory  mansion-house,  and  goes  to  two-story  ac¬ 
quaintances,  they  will  all  be  in  an  excellent  state 
of  health,  and  have  much  pleasure  in  accepting 
this  very  polite  invitation.  If  th.e  note  is  from 
the  lady  of  a  two-story  family  to  three-story  orues, 
the  former  highly  respectable  person  will  very 
Drobably  find  that  an  endemic  complaint  is  prev 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


363 


*Ient,  not  represented  in  the  weekly  bills  of  mor*^ 
fcality,  which  occasions  numerous  regrets  in  the 
bosoms  of  eminently  desirable  parties  that  they 
cannot  have  the  pleasure  of  and-so-forthing. 

In  this  case  there  was  room  for  doubt, — 
mainly  as  to  whether  Elsie  would  take  a  fancy  , 
to  come  or  not.  If  she  should  come,  her  father 
would  certainly  be  with  her.  Dick  had  promised, 
and  thought  he  could  bring  Elsie.  Of  course 
the  young  schoolmaster  will  come,  and  that  poor 
tired-out  looking  Helen,  —  if  only  to  get  out  of 
sight  of  those  horrid  Peckham  wretches.  They/ 
don’t  get  such  invitations  every  day.  The  others 
she  felt  sure  of,  —  all  but  the  old  Doctor,  —  he  ' 
might  have  some  horrid  patient  or  othervto  visit ; 
tell  him  Elsie  Venner’s  going  to  be  there,  —  he 
always  likes  to  have  an  eye  on  her,  they  say,  — 
oh,  he’d  come  fast  enough,  without  any  more 
roaxing. 

She  wanted  the  Doctor,  particularly.  It  was 
odd,  but  she  was  afraid  of  Elsie.  She  felt  as  if 
she  should  be  safe  enough,  if  the  old  Doctor 
were  there  to  see  to  the  girl ;  and  then  she 
should  have  leisure  to  devote  herself  more  freely 
to  the  young  lady’s  father,  for  whom  all  her 
sympathies  were  in  a  state  of  lively  excitement. 

It  was  a  long  time  since  the  Widow  had  seen 
so  many  persons  round  ner  table  as  she  had  now 
Invited.  Better  have  the  plates  set  and  see  how 
they  will  fill  it  up  with  the  leaf  in.  —  A  little  too 
scattering  with  only  eight  plates  set :  if  she  could 


I 


564  ELSIE  YENNER. 

find  two  more  people,  now,  that  would  bring 
the  chairs  a  little  closer,  —  snug,  you  know, — 
which  makes  the  company  sociable.  The  Widow 
thought  over  her  acquaintances.  Why  !  how 
stupid !  there  was  her  good  minister,  the  same 
who  had  married  her,  and  might  —  might  —  bury 
her  for  aught  she  knew,  and  his  granddaughter 
staying  with  him,  —  nice  little  girl,  pretty,  and  not 
old  enough  to  be  dangerous;  —  for  the  Widow 
had  no  notion  of  making  a  tea-party  and  ask¬ 
ing  people  to  it  that  would  be  like  to  stand  be¬ 
tween  her  and  any  little  project  she  might  hap¬ 
pen  to  have  on  anybody’s  heart,  —  not  she !  It 
was  all  right  now ;  —  Blanche  was  married  and 
so  forth ;  Letty  was  a  child ;  Elsie  was  his  daugh¬ 
ter;  Helen  Darley  was  a  nice,  worthy  drudge,— 
poor  thing !  —  faded,  faded,  —  colors  wouldn’t 
wash, — just  what  she  wanted  to  show  off 
against.  Now,  if  the  Dudley  mansion-house 
people  would  only  come,  —  that  was  the  great 
point. 

“  Here’s  a  note  for  us,  Elsie,”  said  her  father 
as  they  sat  round  the  breakfast-table.  “  Mrs. 
Rowens  wants  us  all  to  come  to  tea.” 

It  was  one  of  “  Elsie’s  days,”  as  Old  Sophy 
called  them.  The  light  in  her  eyes  was  still,  but 
very  bright.  She  looked  up  so  full  of  perverse 
and  wilful  impulses,  that  Dick  knew  he  could 
make  her  go  with  him  and  her  father.  He  had 
his  own  motives  for  bringing  her  to  this  determi* 
nation,  —  and  his  own  way  of  setting  about  it 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


365 


**  I  don’t  want  to  go,”  he  said.  u  What  do 
you  say,  Uncle  ?  ”  "~*V. 

“  To  tell  the  truth,  Richard,  I  don’t  much 
fancy  the  Major’s  widow.  I  don’t  like  to  see 
her  weeds  flowering  out  quite  so  strong.  I  sup¬ 
pose  you  don’t  care  about  going,  Elsie  ?  ” 

Elsie  looked  up  in  her  father’s  face  with  an 
expression  which  he  knew  but  too  well.  She 
was  just  in  the  state  which  the  plain  sort  of 
people  call  “  contrary,”  when  they  have  to  deal 
with  it  in  animals.  She  would  insist  on  going 
to  that  tea-party  ;  he  knew  it  just  as  well  be-  7" 
fore  she  spoke  as  after  she  had  spoken.  If  Disk 
had  said  he  wanted  to  go  and  her  father  had 
seconded  his  wishes,  she  would  have  insisted  on 
staying  at  home.  It  was  no  great  matter,  her 
father  said  to  himself,  after  all ;  very  likely  it 
would  amuse  her;  the  Widow  was  a  lively 
woman  enough,  —  perhaps  a  little  comme  il  ice 
faut  pas  socially,  compared  with  the  Thorntons 
and  some  other  families ;  but  what  did  he  care 
'or  these  petty  village  distinctions  ? 

Elsie  spoke. 

“  I  mean  to  go.  You  must  go  with  me,  Dud* 

Vjy.  You  may  do  as  you  like,  Dick.” 

That  settled  the  Dudley-mansion  business,  of 
course.  They  all  three  accepted,  as  fortunately 
lid  all  the  others  who  had  been  invited. 

Hyacinth  Cottage  was  a  pretty  place  enough, 
ft  little  too  much  choked  round  with  bushes,  and 


366 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


too  much  overrun  with  climbing-roses,  which,  in 
the  season  of  slugs  and  rose-bugs,  were  apt  to 
show  so  brown  about  the  leaves  and  so  coleop¬ 
terous  about  the  flowers,  that  it  might  be  ques¬ 
tioned  whether  their  buds  and  blossoms  made 
up  for  these  unpleasant  animal  combinations,—* 
especially  as  the  smell  of  whale-oil  soap  was  very 
commonly  in  the  ascendant  over  that  of  the  roses. 
It  had  its  patch  of  grass  called  u  the  lawn,”  and 
Its  glazed  closet  known  as  u  the  conservatory,” 
according  to  that  system  of  harmless  fictions 
characteristic  of  the  rural  imagination  and  shown 
in  the  names  applied  to  many  familiar  objects. 
The  interior  of  the  cottage  was  more  tasteful  and 
ambitious  than  that  of  the  ordinary  two-story 
dwellings.  In  place  of  the  prevailing  hair-cloth 
covered  furniture,  the  visitor  had  the  satisfaction 
of  seating  himself  upon  a  chair  covered  with 
some  of  the  Widow’s  embroidery,  or  a  sofa  lux¬ 
urious  with  soft  caressing  plush.  The  sporting 
tastes  of  the  late  Major  showed  in  various  prints 
on  the  wall :  Herring’s  “  Plenipotentiary,”  the 
u  red  bullock  ”  of  the  ’34  Derby ;  “  Cadland  ”  and 
1  The  Colonel  ”  ;  u  Crucifix”  ;  “  West- Australian,” 
fastest  of  modern  racers ;  and  among  native 
celebrities,  ugly,  game  old  “  Boston,”  with  his 
straight  neck  and  ragged  hips ;  and  gray  “  Lady 
Suffolk,”  queen,  in  her  day,  not  of  the  turf  bui 
of  the  track,  “  extending  ”  herself  till  she  meas 
ured  a  rod,  more  or  less,  skimming  along  within 
a  yard  of  the  ground,  her  legs  opening  and  shut* 


ELSIE  VENNER 


3G7 


Hug  under  her  with  a  snap,  like  the  four  blades 
of  a  compound  jack-knife. 

These  pictures  were  much  more  refreshing  than 
those  dreary  fancy  death-bed  scenes,  common  in  A 
two-story  country-houses,  in  which  Washington 
and  other  distinguished  personages  are  represent¬ 
ed  as  obligingly  devoting  their  last  moments  to 
taking  a  prominent  part  in  a  tableau ,  in  which 
weeping  relatives,  attached  servants,  professional 
assistants,  and  celebrated  personages  who  might 
by  a  stretch  of  imagination  be  supposed  pres- 
ent,  are  grouped  in  the  most  approved  style  of/ 
arrangement  about  the  chief  actor’s  pillow."^ 

A  single  glazed  bookcase  held  the  family  li¬ 
brary,  which  was  hidden  from  vulgar  eyes  by 
green  silk  curtains  behind  the  glass.  It  would 
have  been  instructive  to  get  a  look  at  it,  as  it 
always  is  to  peep  into  one’s  neighbor’s  book¬ 
shelves.  From  other  sources  and  opportunities 
a  partial  idea  of  it  has  been  obtained.  The 
Widow  had  inherited  some  books  from  her 
mother,  who  was  something  of  a  reader :  Young’s 
K  Night-Thoughts  ”  ;  “  The  Preceptor”  ;  “  The 
Task,  a  Poem,”  by  William  Cowper;  Hervey’s 
u  Meditations  ”  ;  “  Alonzo  and  Melissa  ”  ;  “  Buc¬ 
caneers  of  America”;  “  The  Triumphs  of  Tem¬ 
per”;  u  La  Belle  Assemblee”  ;  Thomson’s  (t  Sea¬ 
sons”  ;  and  a  few  others.  The  Major  had  brought 
in  u  Tom  Jones  ”  and  tt  Peregrine  Pickle  ”  ;  vari¬ 
ous  works  by  Mr.  Pierce  Egan ;  “  Boxiana  ” 
w  The  Racing  Calendar  ”  ;  and  a  Book  of  IJvely 


368 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


Songs  and  Jests  The  Widow  had  added  the 
Poems  of  Lord  Byron  and  T.  Moore  ;  “  Eugene 
Aram  ”  ;  “  The  Tower  of  London,”  by  Harrison 
Ainsworth  ;  some  of  Scott’s  Novels  ;  “  The  Pick¬ 
wick  Papers  ” ;  a  volume  of  Plays,  by  W.  Shak- 
ispeare;  “Proverbial  Philosophy”;  “Pilgrim’s  Prog« 
ress  ” ;  “  The  Whole  Duty  of  Man  ”  (a  present 
when  she  was  married)  ;  with  two  celebrated  re¬ 
ligious  works,  one  by  William  Law  and  the  other 
by  Philip  Doddridge,  which  were  sent  her  after 
her  husband’s  death,  and  which  she  had  tried  to 
read,  but  found  that  they  did  not  agree  with  her 
Of  course  the  bookcase  held  a  few  school  man¬ 
uals  and  compendiums,  and  one  of  Mr.  Web¬ 
ster’s  Dictionaries.  But  the  gilt-edged  Bible 
aKvays  lay  on  the  centre-table,  next  to  the  mag¬ 
azine  with  the  fashion-plates  and  the  scrap-book 
with  pictures  from  old  annuals  and  illustrated 
papers. 

The  reader  need  not  apprehend  the  recital,  at 
full  length,  of  such  formidable  preparations  for 
the  Widow’s  tea-party  as  were  required  in  the 
ease  of  Colonel  Sprowle’s  Social  Entertainment. 
A  tea-party,  even  in  the  country,  is  a  compar¬ 
atively  simple  and  economical  piece  of  business. 
As  soon  as  the  Widow  found  that  all  her  com¬ 
pany  were  coming,  she  set  to  work,  with  the  aid 
of  her  “  smart  ”  maid-servant  and  a  daughter  of 
her  own,  who  was  beginning  to  stretch  and  spread 
at  a  fearful  rate,  but  whom  she  treated  as  a  smal* 
child,  to  make  the  necessary  preparations.  Th« 


ELSIE  YEKNER. 


869 


silver  had  to  be  rubbed;  also  the  grand  plated 
urn, —  her  mother’s  before  hers,  —  style  of  the\ 
Empire,  —  looking  as  if  it  might  have  been  made 
to  hold  the  Major’s  ashes.  Then  came  the  mak¬ 
ing  and  baking  of  cake  and  gingerbread,  the 
smell  whereof  reached  even,  as  far  as  the  sidewalk 
in  front  of  the  cottage,  so  that  small  boys  return¬ 
ing  from  school  snuffed  it  in  the  breeze,  and  dis¬ 
coursed  with  each  other  on  its  suggestions ;  so 
that  the  Widow  Leech,  who  happened  to  pass, 
remembered  she  hadn’t  called  on  Marilly  E-aowens 
for  a  eonsid’ble  spell,  and  turned  in  at  the  gate^ 
and  rang  three  times  with  long  intervals,  — ^but 
all  in  vain,  the  inside  Widow  having  “spotted” 
the  outside  one  through  the  blinds,  and  whispered 
to  her  aides-de-camp  to  let  the  old  thing  ring  away 
till  she  pulled  the  bell  out  by  the  roots,  but  not  to 
stir  to  open  the  door. 

Widow  Itowens  was  what  they  called  a  real 
smart,  capable  woman,  not  very  great  on  books, 
perhaps,  but  knew  what  was  what  and  who  was 
who  as  well  as  another,  —  knew  how  to  make  the 
little  cottage  look  pretty,  how  to  set  out  a  tea- 
table,  and,  what  a  good  many  women  never  can 
find  out,  knew  her  own  style  and  u  got  herself  up 
tip-top,”  as  our  young  friend  Master  Geordie, 
Colonel  Sprowle’s  heir-apparent,  remarked  to  hi3 
fiiend  from  one  of  the  fresh-water  colleges, 
flowers  were  abundant  now,  and  she  had 
dressed  her  rooms  tastefully  with  them.  The 
centre-table  had  two  or  three  gilt- edged  books 

24 


570 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


lying  carelessly  about  on  it,  and  some  prints 
and  a  stereoscope  with  stereographs  to  match 
chiefly  groups  of  picnics,  weddings,  etc.,  in  which 
the  same  somewhat  fatigued-looking  ladies  of 
fashion  and  brides  received  the  attentions  of  th 
same  unpleasant-looking  young  men,  easily  iden 
titled  under  their  different  disguises,  consisting  of 
fashionable  raiment  such  as  gentlemen  are  sup* 
posed  to  wear  habitually.  With  these,  however, 
were  some  pretty  English  scenes,  —  pretty  except 
for  the  old  fellow  with  the  hanging  under-lip  who 
infests  every  one  of  that  interesting  series ;  and  a 
statue  or  two,  especially  that  famous  one  com¬ 
monly  called  the  Lahcoon,  so  as  to  rhyme  with 
moon  and  spoon,  and  representing  an  old  man 
with  his  two  sons  in  the  embraces  of  two  mon¬ 
strous  serpents. 

There  is  no  denying  that  it  was  a  very  dashing 
achievement  of  the  Widow’s  to  bring  together  so 
considerable  a  number  of  desirable  guests.  She 
felt  proud  of  her  feat ;  but  as  to  the  triumph  of 
getting  Dudley  Venner  to  come  out  for  a  visit  to 
Hyacinth  Cottage,  she  was  surprised  and  almost 
frightened  at  her  own  success.  So  much  might 
depend  on  the  impressions  of  that  evening! 

The  next  thing  was  to  be  sure  that  everybody 
should  be  in  the  right  place  at  the  tea-table,  and 
this  the  Widow  thought  she  could  manage  by  a 
few  words  to  the  older  guests  and  a  little  shuffling 
about  and  shifting  when  they  got  to  the  table 
To  settle  everything  the  Widow  made  out  a  dia 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


371 


gram,  which  the  reader  should  have  a  chance  of 
inspecting  in  an  authentic  copy,  if  these  pages v 
were  allowed  under  any  circumstances  to  be  the 
vehicle  of  illustrations.  If,  however,  he  or  she 
really  wishes  to  see  the  way  the  pieces  stood  as 
they  were  placed  at  the  beginning  of  the  game, 
(the  Widow’s  gambit,)  he  or  she  had  better  at 
once  take  a  sheet  of  paper,  draw  an  oval,  and 
arrange  the  characters  according  to  the  following 
schedule. 

At  the  head  of  the  table,  the  Hostess,  Widow 
Marilla  Rowens.  Opposite  her,  at  the  other  encf 
Rev.  Dr.  Honeywood.  At  the  right  of  the  Host¬ 
ess,  Dudley  Venner,  next  him  Helen  Dailey,  next 
her  Dr.  Kittredge,  next  him  Mrs.  Blanche  Crea¬ 
mer,  then  the  Reverend  Doctor.  At  the  left  of 
the  Hostess,  Bernard  Langdon,  next  him  Letty 
Forrester,  next  Letty  Mr.  Richard  Venne^,  next 
him  Elsie,  and  so  to  the  Reverend  Doctor  again. 

The  company  came  together  a  little  before  the 
early  hour  at  which  it  was  customary  to  take  tea 
in  Rockland.  The  Widow  knew  everybody,  of 
course :  who  was  there  in  Rockland  she  did  not 
know  ?  But  some  of  them  had  to  be  introduced : 
Mr.  Richard  Venner  to  Mr.  Bernard,  Mr.  Bernard 
to  Miss  Letty,  Dudley  Venner  to  Miss  Helen 
Darley,  and  so  on.  The  two  young  men  looked 
each  other  straight  in  the  eyes,  —  both  full  of 
youthful  life,  but  one  of  frank  and  fearless  aspect, 
the  other  with  a  dangerous  feline  beauty  alien  to 
he  New  England  half  of  his  Dlood. 


$72 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


The  guests  talked,  turned  over  the  prints,  looked 
at  the  flowers,  opened  the  “  Proverbial  Philoso¬ 
phy  :i  with  gilt  edges,  and  the  volume  of  Plays  by 
W.  Shakspeare,  examined  the  horse-pictures  or 
the  walls,  and  so  passed  away  the  time  until  te 
was  announced,  when  they  paired  off  for  the  room 
where  it  was  in  readiness.  The  Widow  had 
managed  it  well ;  everything  was  just  as  she 
wanted  it.  Dudley  Venner  was  between  hersell 
and  the  poor  tired-looking  school-mistress  with  her 
faded  colors.  Blanche  Creamer,  a  lax,  tumble-to- 
pieces,  Greuze- ish  looking  blonde,  whom  the 
Widow  hated  because  the  men  took  to  her,  was 
purgatoried  between  the  two  old  Doctors,  and 
could  see  all  the  looks  that  passed  between  Dick 
Yenner  and  his  cousin.  The  young  school-master 
could  talk  to  Miss  Letty :  it  was  his  business  to 
know  how  to  talk  to  school-girls.  Dick  would 
amuse  himself  with  his  cousin  Elsie.  The  old 
Doctors  only  wanted  to  be  well  fed  and  they 
WDuld  do  well  enough. 

It  would  be  very  pleasant  to  describe  the  tea- 
table  ;  but  in  reality,  it  did  not  pretend  to  offer 
a  plethoric  banquet  to  the  guests.  The  WidoyC 
had  not  visited  at  the  mansion-houses  for  nothing 
and  she  had  learned  there  that  an  overloaded  tea- 
table  may  do  well  enough  for  farm-hands  when 
they  come  in  at  evening  from  their  work  and  sit 
down  unwashed  in  their  shirt-sleeves,  but  that  fo* 
decently  bred  people  such  an  insult  to  the  mem* 
Dry  of  a  dinner  not  yet  half-assimilated  is  wholly 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


37? 


Inadmissible.  Everything  was  delicate,  and  al^ 
most  everything  of  fair  complexion  :  white  bread 
and  biscuits,  frosted  and  sponge  cake,  cream, 
honey,  straw-colored  butter ;  only  a  shadow  here 
and  there,  where  the  fire  had  crisped  and  browned 
the  surfaces  of  a  stack  of  dry  toast,  or  where  a 
preserve  had  brought  away  some  of  the  red  sun¬ 
shine  of  the  last  year’s  summer.  The  Widow 
shall  have  the  credit  of  her  well-ordered  tea-table, 
also  of  her  bountiful  cream-pitchers ;  for  it  is  well 
known  that  city-people  find  cream  a  very  scarca 
luxury  in  a  good  many  country-houses  of  mor^ 
pretensions  than  Hyacinth  Cottage.  There  are 
no  better  maxims  for  ladies  who  give  tea-parties 
than  these  :  —  ~ 

Cream  is  thicker  than  water. 

Large  heart  never  loved  little  cream-pot . 

There  is  a  common  feeling  in  genteel  families 
that  the  third  meal  of  the  day  is  not  so  essential 
a  part  of  the  daily  bread  as  to  require  any  especial 
acknowledgment  to  the  Providence  which  bestows 
it.  Very  devout  people,  who  would  never  sit  down 
to  a  breakfast  or  a  dinner  without  the  grace  before 
meat  which  honors  the  Giver  of  it,  feel  as  if  they 
thanked  Heaven  enough  for  their  tea  and  toast 
by  partaking  of  them  cheerfully  without  audible 
petition  or  ascription.  But  the  Widow  was  not 
exactly  mansion-house-bred,  and  so  thought  it 
tiecessary  to  give  the  Reverend  Doctor  a  peculiar 
jook  which  he  understood  at  once  as  inviting  his 
orofessional  services.  He,  therefore,  uttered  a  few 


B74 


ELSIE  YEX1STER. 


simple  words  of  gratitude,  very  quietly,  —  much 
to  the  satisfaction  of  some  of  the  guests,  who  had 
expected  one  of  those  elaborate  effusions,  with 
rolling  up  of  the  eyes  and  rhetorical  accents,  so 
frequent  with  eloquent  divines  when  they  address 
their  Maker  in  genteel  company. 

Everybody  began  talking  with  the  person  sit¬ 
ting  next  at  hand.  Mr.  Bernard  naturally  enough 
turned  his  attention  first  to  the  Widow ;  but 
somehow  or  other  the  right  side  of  the  Widow 
seemed  to  be  more  wide  awake  than  the  left  side, 
next  him,  and  he  resigned  her  to  the  courtesies 
of  Mr.  Dudley  Venner,  directing  himself,  not  very 
unwillingly,  to  the  young  girl  next  him  on  the 
other  side.  Miss  Letty  Forrester,  the  grand¬ 
daughter  of  the  Reverend  Doctor,  was  city-bred, 
as  anybody  might  see,  and  city-dressed,  as  any 
woman  would  know  at  sight ;  a  man  might  only 
feel  the  general  effect  of  clear,  well-matched  col¬ 
ors,  of  harmonious  proportions,  of  the  cut  which 
makes  everything  cling  like  a  bather’s  sleeve 
where  a  natural  outline  is  to  be  kept,  and  ruffle 
itself  up  like  the  hackle  of  a  pitted  fighting-cock 
where  art  has  a  right  to  luxuriate  in  silken  ex¬ 
uberance.  How  this  city-bred  and  city-dressed 
girl  came  to  be  in  Rockland  Mr.  Bernard  did  not 
know,  but  he  knew  at  any  rate  that  she  was  his 
next  neighbor  and  entitled  to  his  courtesies.  She 
Was  handsome,  too,  when  he  came  to  look,  verj 
Handsome  when  he  came  to  look  again,  —  eni- 
dowed  with  that  city  beauty  which  is  like  the 


ELSIE  YENNEE. 


375 


Deauty  of  wall-fruit,  something  finer  in  certain^ 
respects  than  can  be  reared  off  the  pavement. 

The  miserable  routinists  who  keep  repeating 
invidiously  Cowper’s 

“  God  made  the  country  and  man  made  the  town,** 

as  if  the  town  were  a  place  to  kill  out  the  race 
in,  do  not  know  what  they  are  talking  about. 
Where  could  they  raise  such  Saint- Michael  pears, 
such  Saint- Germains,  such  Brown  Beurr^s,  as 
we  had  until  within  a  few  years  growing  with-^ 
in  the  walls  of  our  old  city-gardens  ?  Is  the  ^lark 
and  damp  cavern  where  a  ragged  beggar  hides 
himself  better  than  a  town-mansion  which  fronts 
the  sunshine  and  backs  on  its  own  cool  shadow, 
with  gas  and  water  and  all  appliances  to  suit  all 
needs?  God  made  the  cavern  and  man-made 
the  house!  What  then? 

There  is  no  doubt  that  the  pavement  keeps  a 
deal  of  mischief  from  coming  up  out  of  the  earth, 
and,  with  a  dash  off  of  it  in  summer,  just  to  cool 
the  soles  of  the  feet  when  it  gets  too  hot,  is  the 
best  place  for  many  constitutions,  as  some  few 
practical  people  have  already  discovered.  And 
just  so  these  beauties  that  grow  and  ripen  against 
the  city-walls,  these  young  fellows  with  cheeks 
like  peaches  and  young  girls  with  cheeks  like 
nectarines,  show  that  the  most  perfect  forms  ot 
artificial  life  can  do  as  much  for  tne  human  prod- 
net  as  garden-culture  for  strawberries  and  black 
Derries. 


876 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


If  l\Ir.  Bernard  had  philosophized  or  prosed  in 
this  way,  with  so  pretty,  nay,  so  lovely  a  neigh¬ 
bor  as  Miss  Letty  Forrester  waiting  for  him  to 
speak  to  her,  he  would  have  to  be  dropped  from 
this  narrative  as  a  person  unworthy  of  his  good- 
fortune,  and  not  deserving  the  kind  reader’s  fur¬ 
ther  notice.  On  the  contrary,  he  no  sooner  set 
his  eyes  fairly  on  her  than  he  said  to  himself  that 
she  was  charming,  and  that  he  wished  she  were 
one  of  his  scholars  at  the  Institute.  So  he  began 
talking  with  her  in  an  easy  way ;  for  he  knew 
something  of  young  girls  by  this  time,  and,  of 
course,  could  adapt  himself  to  a  young  lady  who 
looked  as  if  she  might  be  not  more  than  fifteen  or 
sixteen  years  old,  and  therefore  could  hardly  be 
a  match  in  intellectual  resources  for  the  seventeen 
and  eighteen  year-old  first-class  scholars  of  the 
A.pollinean  Institute.  But  city- wall-fruit  ripens 
early,  and  he  soon  found  that  this  girl’s  training 
had  so  sharpened  her  wits  and  stored  her  mem¬ 
ory,  that  he  need  not  be  at  the  trouble  to  stoop 
painfully  in  order  to  come  down  to  her  level. 

The  beauty  of  good-breeding  is  that  it  adjusts 
itself  to  all  relations  without  effort,  true  to  itself 
always,  however  the  manners  of  those  around 
it  may  change^  Self-respect  and  respect  for 
others,  —  the  sensitive  consciousness  poises  itself 
in  these  as  the  compass  in  the  ship’s  binnacle 
balances  itself  and  maintains  its  true  level  with¬ 
in  the  two  concentric  rings  which  suspend  it  on 
►heir  pivols.  This  thorough-bred  school-girl  quite 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


377 


enchanted  Mr.  Bernard.  He  could  not  under¬ 
stand  where  she  got  her  style,  her  way  of  dress, 
her  enunciation,  her  easy  manners.  The  minis¬ 
ter  was  a  most  worthy  gentleman,  but  this  was 
not  the  Rockland  native-born  manner;  some  new 
element  had  come  in  between  the  good,  plain, 
worthy  man  and  this  young  girl,  fit  to  be  a  Crown 
Prince’s  partner  where  there  were  a  thousand  to 
choose  from. 

He  looked  across  to  Helen  Darley,  for  he  knew 
she  would  understand  the  glance  of  admiration 
with  which  he  called  her  attention  to  the  young 
beauty  at  his  side  ;  and  Helen  knew  what  ar  young 
girl  could  be,  as  compared  with  what^too  many  a 
one  is,  as  well  as  anybody. 

This  poor,  dear  Helen  of  ours !  How  admira¬ 
ble  the  contrast  between  her  and  the  Widow  on 
the  other  side  of  Dudley  Venner!  But,  what  was 
very  odd,  that  gentleman  apparently  thought  the 
contrast  was  to  the  advantage  of  this  poor,  dear 
Helen.  At  any  rate,  instead  of  devoting  himself 
solely  to  the  Widow,  he  happened  to  be  just  at 
that  moment  talking  in  a  very  interested  and, 
apparently,  not  uninteresting  way  to  his  right- 
hand  neighbor,  who,  on  her  part,  never  looked 
more  charmingly,  —  as  Mr.  Bernard  could  not 
help  saying  to  himself,  —  but,  to  be  sure,  he  had 
just  been  looking  at  the  young  girl  next  him,  so 
that  his  eyes  were  brimful  of  beauty,  and  may 
have  spilled  some  of  it  on  the  first  comer :  for  you 
know  M.  Becquerel  has  been  showing  us  lately 


378 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


how  everything  is  phosphorescent ;  that  it  soaks 
itself  with  light  in  an  instant’s  exposure,  so  thal 
it  is  wet  with  liquid  sunbeams,  or,  if  you  will 
tremulous  with  luminous  vibrations,  when  firsl 
plunged  into  the  negative  bath  of  darkness,  and 
betrays  itself  by  the  light  which  escapes  from  it# 
surface. 

Whatever  were  the  reason,  this  poor,  deal 
Helen  never  looked  so  sweetly.  Her  plainly 
parted  brown  hair,  her  meek,  blue  eyes,  her  cheek 
just  a  little  tinged  with  color,  the  almost  sad 
simplicity  of  her  dress,  and  that  look  he  knew  so 
well, —  so  full  of  cheerful  patience,  so  sincere, 
that  he  had  trusted  her  from  the  first  moment  as 
the  believers  of  the  larger  half  of  Christendom 
trust  the  Blessed  Virgin, —  Mr.  Bernard  took  this 
all  in  at  a  glance,  and  felt  as  pleased  as  if  it  had 
been  his  own  sister  Dorothea  Elizabeth  that  he 
was  looking  at.  As  for  Dudley  Venner,  Mr, 
Bernard  could  not  help  being  struck  by  the  ani¬ 
mated  expression  of  his  countenance.  It  cer¬ 
tainly  showed  great  kindness,  on  his  part,  to  pay 
so  much  attention  to  this  quiet  girl,  when  he  had 
the  thunder-and-lightning  Widow  on  the  othei 
side  of  him. 

Mrs.  Manila  Rowens  did  not  know  what  to 
make  of  it.  She  had  made  her  tea-party  expressly 
for  Mr.  Dudley  Venner.  She  had  placed  him  iust 
as  she  wanted,  between  herself  and  a  meelt.  deli« 
cate  woman  who  dressed  in  gray,  wore  a  pJaiv 
breastpin  with  hair  in  it,  who  taught  a  pack  o / 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


379 


girls  up  there  at  the  school,  and  looked  as  if  shei^ 
were  bom  for  a  teacher,  —  the  very  best  foil  that 
she  could  have  chosen ;  and  here  was  this  man, 
polite  enough  to  herself,  to  be  sure,  but  turning 
round  to  that  very  undistinguished  young  person, 
as  if  he  rather  preferred  her  conversation  of  the 
two ! 

The  truth  was  that  Dudley  Venner  and  Helen 
Darley  met  as  two  travellers  might  meet  in  the 
desert,  wearied,  both  of  them,  with  their  long 
journey,  one  having  food,  but  no  water,  the  other  _ 
water,  but  no  food.  Each  saw  that  the  other  had 
been  in  long  conflict  with  some  trial ;  fdr  their 
voices  were  low  and  tender,  as  patiently  borne 
sorrow  and  humbly  uttered  prayers  make  every 
human  voice.  Through  these  tones,  more  than 
by  what  they  said,  they  came  into  natural  sym¬ 
pathetic  relations  with  each  other.  Nothing  could 
be  more  unstudied.  As  for  Dudley  Venner,  no 
beauty  in  all  the  world  could  have  so  soothed 
and  magnetized  him  as  the  very  repose  and  sub¬ 
dued  gentleness  which  the  Widow  had  thought 
would  make  the  best  possible  background  for  her 
own  more  salient  and  effective  attractions.  No 
doubt,  Helen,  on  her  side,  was  almost  too  readily 
pleased  with  the  confidence  this  new  acquaint¬ 
ance  she  was  making  seemed  to  show  her  from 
the  very  first.  She  knew  so  few  men  of  any  con¬ 
dition!  Mr.  Silas  Peckham  *  he  was  her  employer, 
%nd  she  ought  to  think  of  him  as  well  as  she 
could ;  but  every  time  she  thought  of  him  it  wa* 


S80 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


with  a  shiver  of  disgust.  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon: 
a  noble  young  man,  a  true  friend,  like  a  brother 
to  her,  —  God  bless  him,  and  send  him  some 
young  heart  as  fresh  as  his  own !  But  this  gen¬ 
tleman  produced  a  new  impression  upon  her, 
quite  different  from  any  to  which  she  was  accus¬ 
tomed.  His  rich,  low  tones  had  the  strangest 
significance  to  her ;  she  felt  sure  he  must  have 
lived  through  long  experiences,  sorrowful  like  her 
own.  Elsie’s  father!  She  looked  into  his  dark 
eyes,  as  she  listened  to  him,  to  see  if  they  had 
any  glimmer  of  that  peculiar  light,  diamond- 
bright,  but  cold  and  still,  which  she  knew  so  well 
in  Elsie’s.  Anything  but  that !  Never  was  there 
more  tenderness,  it  seemed  to  her,  than  in  the 
whole  look  and  expression  of  Elsie’s  father.  She 
must  have  been  a  great  trial  to  him  ;  yet  his  face 
was  that  of  one  who  had  been  saddened,  not 
soured,  by  his  discipline.  Knowing  what  Elsie 
must  be  to  him,  how  hard  she  must  make  any 
parent’s  life,  Helen  could  not  but  be  struck  with 
the  interest  Mr.  Dudley  Yenner  showed  in  her  as 
his  daughter’s  instructress.  He  was  too  kind  to 
her ;  again  and  again  she  meekly  turned  from 
him,  so  as  to  leave  him  free  to  talk  to  the  showy 
lady  at  his  other  side,  who  was  looking  all  the 
while 

“  like  the  night 

Of  cloudless  realms  and  starry  skies  ” ; 

but  still  Mr.  Dudley  Venner,  after  a  tew  courte- 
pus  words,  came  back  to  the  blue  eyes  and  brow# 


381 


u 


ELSIE  VENNER. 

hair;  still  he  kept  his  look  fixed  upon  her,  and^ 
his  tones  grew  sweeter  and  lower  as  he  became 
more  interested  in  talk,  until  this  poor,  dear 
Helen,  what  with  surprise,  and  the  bashfulness 
natural  to  one  who  had  seen  little  of  the  gay 
world,  and  the  stirring  of  deep,  confused  sym¬ 
pathies  with  this  suffering  father,  whose  heart 
seemed  so  full  of  kindness,  felt  her  cheeks  glow- 
ingwith  unwonted  flame,  and  betrayed  the  pleas¬ 
ing  trouble  of  her  situation  by  looking  so  sweetly 
as  to  arrest  Mr.  Bernard’s  eye  for  a  moment,^ 
when  he  looked  away  from  the  young  beauty 
sitting  next  him. 

Elsie  meantime  had  been  silent^  with  that 
singular,  still,  watchful  look  which  those  who 
knew  her  well  had  learned  to  fear.  Her  head 
just  a  little  inclined  on  one  side,  perfectly  mo¬ 
tionless  for  whole  minutes,  her-eyes  seeming  to 
grow  small  and  bright,  as  always  when  she  was 
under  her  evil  influence,  she  was  looking  ob¬ 
liquely  at  the  young  girl  on  the  other  side  of  her 
cousin  Dick  and  next  to  Bernard  Langdon.  As 
for  Dick  himself,  she  seemed  to  be  paying  very 
little  attention  to  him.  Sometimes  her  eyes 
would  wander  off  to  Mr.  Bernard,  and  their  ex¬ 
pression,  as  old  Dr.  Kittredge,  who  watched  her 
for  a  while  pretty  keenly,  noticed,  would  change 
perceptibly.  One  would  have  said  that  she 
looked  with  a  kind  of  dull  hatred  at  the  girl, 
but  with  a  half-relenting  reproachful  anger  at 
Mr.  Bernard. 


382 


ELSIE  VESESZE. 


Miss  Letty  Forrester,  at  yrhom  Elsie  bad  been 
looking  from  time  to  time  in  this  fixed  way 
was  conscious  meanwhile  of  some  unusual  in¬ 
fluence.  First  it  was  a  feeling  of  constraint, — 
then,  as  it  were,  a  diminished  power  over  the 
muscles,  as  if  an  invisible  elastic  cobweb  were 
spinning  round  her,  —  then  a  tendency  to  turn 
away  from  Mr.  Bernard,  who  was  making  him¬ 
self  very  agreeable,  and  look  straight  into  those 

eves  which  would  not  leave  her.  and  which 
«  * 

seemed  to  be  drawing  her  towards  them,  while 
at  the  same  time  they  chilled  the  blood  in  all 
her  veins. 

Mr.  Bernard  saw  this  influence  coming  over 
her.  All  at  once  he  noticed  that  she  sighed, 
and  that  some  little  points  of  moisture  began  to 
glisten  on  her  forehead.  But  she  did  not  grow 
pale  perceptibly  ;  she  had  no  involuntary  or  hys¬ 
teric  movements  ;  she  still  listened  to  him  and 
smiled  naturally  enough.  Perhaps  she  was  only 
nervous  at  being  r rated  at.  At  any  rate,  she  was 
coming  under  some  unpleasant  influence  or  other, 
and  Mr.  Bernard  had  seen  enough  of  the  strange 
impression  Elsie  sometimes  produced  to  wish 
this  young  girl  to  be  relieved  from  it,  whatever 
it  was.  He  turned  toward  Elsie  and  looked  at 
her  in  such  a  way  as  to  draw  her  eyes  upon  him, 
Then  he  looked  steadily  and  calmly  into  them 
It  was  a  great  effort,  for  some  perfectly  inex« 
plicabie  reason.  At  one  instant  he  thought  ha 
eould  not  sit  where  he  was;  he  must  go  aac 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


383 


ipeak  to  Elsie.  Then  he  wanted  to  take  his 
eyes  away  from  hers ;  there  was  something  in¬ 
tolerable  in  the  light  that  came  from  them.  But 


he  was  determined  to  look  her  down,  and  he  be¬ 
lieved  he  could  do  it,  for  he  had  seen  her  counte¬ 
nance  change  more  than  once  when  he  had 
caught  her  gaze  steadily  fixed  on  him.  All  this 
took  not  minutes,  but  seconds.  Presently  she 
changed  color  slightly,  —  lifted  -her  head,  which 
was  inclined  a  little  to  one  side,  —  shut  and 
opened  her  eyes  two  or  three  times,  as  if  they 
had  been  pained  or  wearied,  —  and  turned  away 
baffled,  and  shamed,  as  it  would  seem,  and  shorn 
for  the  time  of  her  singular  and  formidable  or  at 
least  evil-natured  power  of  swaying  the  impulses 
of  those  around  her. 

It  takes  too  long  to  describe  these  scenes 
where  a  good  deal  of  life  is  concentrated  into 
a  few  silent  seconds.  Mr.  Richard  Venner  had 
sat  quietly  through  it  all,  although  this  short 
pantomime  had  taken  place  literally  before  his 
face.  He  saw  what  was  going  on  well  enough, 
and  understood  it  all  perfectly  well.  Of  course 
the  school-master  had  been  trying  to  make  Elsie 
jealous,  and  had  succeeded.  The  little  school¬ 
girl  was  a  decoy-duck,  —  that  was  all.  Estates 
like  the  Dudley  property  were  not  to  be  had 
every  day,  and  no  doubt  the  Yankee  usher  was 
willing  to  take  some  pains  to  make  sure  of  Elsie. 
Doesn’t  Elsie  look  savage  ?  Dick  involuntarily 
moved  his  chair  a  little  away  from  her,  and 


r 


334 


ELSIE  VEXNER. 


thought  he  felt  a  pricking  in  the  small  'white 
gears  on  his  wrist.  A  dare-devil  fellow,  but 
somehow  or  other  this  girl  had  taken  strange 
hold  of  his  imagination,  and  he  often  swore  to 
himself,  that,  when  he  married  her,  he  would 
carry  a  loaded  revolver  with  him  to  his  bridal 
chamber. 

Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer  ras’ed  inwardly  at  first  to 

o  y 

find  herself  between  the  two  old  gentlemen  of  the 
party.  It  very  soon  gave  her  great  comfort,  how¬ 
ever,  to  see  that  Marilla  Bowens  had  just  missed 
it  in  her  calculations,  and  she  chuckled  im¬ 
mensely  to  find  Dudley  Veneer  devoting  him¬ 
self  chiefly  to  Helen  Darley.  If  the  Bowens 
woman  should  hook  Dudley,  she  felt  as  if  she 
should  gnaw  all  her  nails  oil  for  spite.  To  think 
of  seeing  her  barouching  about  Bockland  be¬ 
hind  a  pair  of  long-tailed  bays  and  a  coachman 
with  a  band  on  his  hat,  while  she,  Blanche  Crea¬ 
mer,  was  driving  herself  about  in  a  one-horse 
“  carriage ” !  Becovering  her  spirits  by  degrees, 
she  began  playing  her  surfaces  off  at  the  two 
old  Doctors,  just  by  way  of  practice.  First  she 
heaved  up  a  glaring  white  shoulder,  the  right 
one,  so  that  the  Reverend  Doctor  should  be 
stunned  by  it,  if  such  a  thing  might  be.  The 
Reverend  Doctor  was  human,  as  the  Apostle 
was  not  ashamed  to  confess  himself.  Half- 
devoutly  and  half-mischievously  he  repeated  Ti- 
wardly,  “  Resist  the  Devil  and  he  will  flee  from 
you.”  As  the  Beverend  Doctor  did  not  sbotf 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


385 


any  lively  susceptibility,  she  thought  she  would\ 
try  the  left  shoulder  on  old  Dr.  Kittredge.  That 
worthy  and  experienced  student  of  science  was 
not  at  all  displeased  with  the  manoeuvre,  and 
lifted  his  head  so  as  to  command  the  exhibition 
through  his  glasses.  “  Blanche  is  good  for  half 
a  dozen  years  or  so,  if  she  is  careful,”  the  Doctor 
said  to  himself,  “  and  then  she  must  take  to  hei 
prayer-book.”  After  this  spasmodic  failure  of 
Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer’s  to  stir  up  the  old  Doc¬ 
tors,  she  returned  again  to  the  pleasing  task  of 7 
watching  the  Widow  in  her  evident  discomfiture. 
But  dark  as  the  Widow  looked  in  her  half-con¬ 
cealed  pet,  she  was  but  as  a  pale  shadow,  com¬ 
pared  to  Elsie  in  her  silent  concentration  of 
shame  and  anger. 

“  Well,  there  is  one  good  thing,”  said-  Mrs. 
Blanche  Creamer;  “Dick  doesn’t  get  much  out 
of  that  cousin  of  his  this  evening !  Doesn’t  he 
look  handsome,  though  ?  ” 

So  Mrs.  Blanche,  being  now  a  good  deal  taken 
up  with  her  observations  of  those  friends  of  hers 
and  ours,  began  to  be  rather  careless  of  her  two 
old  Doctors,  who  naturally  enough  fell  into  con¬ 
versation  with  each  other  across  the  white  sur¬ 
faces  of  that  lady,  —  perhaps  not  very  politely, 
but,  under  the  circumstances,  almost  as  a  matter 
of  necessity. 

When  a  minister  and  a  doctor  get  talking 
together,  they  always  have  a  great  deal  to  say 
and  so  it  happened  that  the  company  left  the 

25 


58G 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


table  just  as  the  two  Doctors  were  beginning  to 
get  at  each  other’s  ideas  about  various  interest¬ 
ing  matters.  If  we  follow  them  into  the  othei 
parlor,  we  can,  perhaps,  pick  up  something  of 
jheir  conversation. 


ELSIE  YENNEE. 


887 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

WHY  DOCTORS  DIFFER. 

Tjl  *  company  rearranged  itself  with  some 
charges  after  leaving  the  tea-table.  Dudley 
Venrer  was  very  polite  to  the  Widow;  but-ihat 
lady  having  been  called  off  for  a  few  moments 
for  some  domestic  arrangement,  he  slid  back  to 
the  side  of  Helen  Darley,  his  daughter’s  faithful 
teacher.  Elsie  had  got  away  by  herself,  and  was 
taken  up  in  studying  the  stereoscopic  Laocoon. 
Hick,  being  thus  set  free,  had  been  seized  upon 
by  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  who  had  diffused  her¬ 
self  over  three-quarters  of  a  sofa  and  beckoned 
him  to  the  remaining  fourth.  Mr.  Bernard  and 
Miss  Letty  were  having  a  snug  tete-a-tete  in  the 
recess  of  a  bay-window.  The  two  Doctors  had 
taken  two  arm-chairs  and  sat  squared  off  against 
each  other.  Their  conversation  is  perhaps  as 
well  worth  reporting  as  that  of  the  rest  of  the 
company,  and,  as  it  was  carried  on  in  a  louder 
tone,  was  of  course  more  easy  to  gather  and  put 
on  record. 

It  was  a  curious  sight  enough  to  see  those  two 
*©pres?  ntatives  of  two  great  professions  brought 


388 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


face  to  face  to  talk  over  the  subjects  they  hau 
been  looking  at  all  their  lives  from  such  dif¬ 
ferent  points  of  view.  Both  were  old ;  old 
enough  to  have  been  moulded  by  their  habits 
of  thought  and  life ;  old  enough  to  have  all 
their  beliefs  “  fretted  in,”  as  vintners  say,  — 
thoroughly  worked  up  with  their  characters 
Each  of  them  looked  his  calling.  The  Rev 
erend  Doctor  had  lived  a  good  deal  among 
books  in  his  study;  the  Doctor,  as  we  will  cab 
the  medical  gentleman,  had  been  riding  about 
the  country  for  between  thirty  and  forty  years. 
His  face  looked  tough  and  weather-worn ;  while 
the  Reverend  Doctor’s,  hearty  as  it  appeared, 
was  of  finer  texture.  Ine  Doctor’s  was  the 
graver  of  the  two ;  there  was  something  of 
grimness  about  it,  — =  partly  owing  to  the  north¬ 
easters  he  had  faced  for  so  many  years,  partly 
to  long  comp  onship  with  that  stern  person¬ 
age  who  nev  deals  in  sentiment  or  pleasantry. 
His  speech  was  apt  to  be  brief  and  peremp¬ 
tory  ;  it  was  a  way  he  had  got  by  ordering 
patients  ;  but  he  could  discourse  somewhat,  on 
occasion,  as  the  reader  may  find  out.  The 
Reverend  Doctor  had  an  open,  smiling  express 
Sion,  a  cheery  voice,  a  hearty  laugh,  and  a 
cordial  way  with  him  which  some  thought  too 
lively  for  his  cloth,  but  which  children,  who  are 
good  judges  of  such  matters,  delighted  in,  so 
that  he  was  the  favorite  of  all  the  little  rogues 
about  town.  But  he  had  the  clerical  art  of  so» 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


383 


bering  down  in  a  moment,  when  asked  to  say 
grace  while  somebody  was  in  the  middle  of  some 
particularly  funny  story ;  and  though  his  voice  ( 
was  so  cheery  in  common  talk,  in  the  pulpit,  like 
almost  all  preachers,  he  had  a  wholly  different 
and  peculiar  way  of  speaking,  supposed  to  be 
more  acceptable  to  the  Creator  than  the  natural 
manner.  In  point  of  fact,  most  of  our  anti- 
papal  and  anti-prelatical  clergymen  do  really  in¬ 
tone  their  prayers,  without  suspecting  in  the  least 
that  they  have  fallen  into  such  a  Romish  practice^ 
This  is  the  way  the  conversation  between  the 
Doctor  of  Divinity  and  the  Doctor  of  Medicine 
was  going  on  at  the  point  where  these  notes  take 
it  up. 


7 


“  Ubi  ires  me  did,  duo  athei ,  you  know,  Doctor. 
Your  profession  has  always  had  the  credit  of  be¬ 
ing  lax  in  doctrine,  —  though  pretty  stringent  in 
practice ,  ha '  ha !  ” 

“  Some  priest  said  that,”  the  Doctor  answered, 
dryly.  “  They  always  tallied  Latin  when  they 
had  a  bigger  lie  than  common  to  get  rid  of.” 

u  Good  !  ”  said  the  Reverend  Doctor  j  “  I’m 
afraid  they  would  lie  a  little  sometimes.  But 
isn’t  there  some  truth  in  it,  Doctor  ?  Don’t  you 
think  your  profession  is  apt  to  see  1  Nature  ’  in 
the  place  of  the  God  of  Nature,  —  to  lose  sight 
of  the  great  First  Cause  in  their  daily  study  of 
secondary  causes  ?  ” 

“  I’ve  thought  abDut  that,”  the  Doctor  answered, 


390 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


K  and  I’ve  talked  about  it  and  read  about  it,  and 
I’ve  come  to  the  conclusion  that  nobody  believes 
in  God  and  trusts  in  God  quite  so  much  as  the 
doctors ;  only  it  isn’t  just  the  sort  of  Deity  that 
some  of  your  profession  have  wanted  them  to 
take  up  with.  There  was  a  student  of  mine 
wrote  a  dissertation  on  the  Natural  Theology  of 
Health  and  Disease,  and  took  that  old  lying 
proverb  for  his  motto.  He  knew  a  good  deal 
more  about  books  than  ever  I  did,  and  had 
studied  in  other  countries.  I’ll  tell  you  what  he 
said  about  it.  He  said  the  old  Heathen  Doctor, 
Galen,  praised  God  for  his  handiwork  in  the  hu¬ 
man  body,  just  as  if  he  had  been  a  Christian, 
or  the  Psalmist  himself.  He  said  they  had  this 
sentence  set  up  in  large  letters  in  the  great  lec¬ 
ture-room  in  Paris  where  he  attended :  I  dressed 
his  wound  and  God  healed  him .  That  was  an  old 
surgeon’s  saying.  And  he  gave  a  long  list  of 
doctors  who  were  not  only  Christians,  but  famous 
ones.  I  grant  you,  though,  ministers  and  doctors 
are  very  apt  to  see  differently  in  spiritual  mat¬ 
ters.” 

“  That’s  it,”  said  the  Ifeverend  Doctor ;  11  you 
are  apt  t~>  see  ‘Nature’  wh°re  we  see  God,  and 
appeal  tc  Science  ’  where  we  are  contented  with 
Revelation.” 

“We  don’t  separate  God  arM1  Nature,  perhaps, 
as  you  do,”  the  Doctor  answered.  “  When  we 
*ay  that  God  is  omnipresent  and  omnipotent  ant? 
omniscient,  we  are  a  little  more  apt  to  mean  it 


ELSIE  VENNER 


391 


than  your  folks  are.  We  think,  when  a  wound 
heals,  that  God’s  presence  and  power  and  knowU 
edge  are  there,  healing  it,  just  as  that  old  sur¬ 
geon  did.  We  think  a  good  many  theologians^ 
working  among  their  books,  don’t  see  the  facts 
of  the  world  they  live  in.  When  we  tell  ’em 
of  these  facts,  they  are  apt  to  call  us  material¬ 
ists  and  atheists  and  infidels,  and  all  that.  We 
can’t  help  seeing  the  facts,  and  we  don’t  think 
it’s  wicked  to  mention  ’em.” 

“  Do  tell  me,”  the  Reverend  Doctor  said,  u  some 
of  these  facts  we  are  in  the  habit  of  overlooking, 
and  which  your  profession  thinks  it  can  see  and 
understand.” 

u  That’s  very  easy,”  the  Doctor  replied>  “  For 
instance :  you  don’t  understand  or  don’t  allow  for 
idiosyncrasies  as  we  learn  to.  We  know  that 
food  and  physic  act  differently  with  different  peo¬ 
ple  ;  but  you  think  the  same  kind  of  truth  is  go¬ 
ing  to  suit,  or  ought  to  suit,  all  minds.  We  don’t 
fight  with  a  patient  because  he  can’t  take  mag¬ 
nesia  or  opium;  but  you  are  all  the  time  quar¬ 
relling  over  your  beliefs,  as  if  belief  did  not 
depend  very  much  on  race  and  constitution,  to 
say  nothing  of  early  training.” 

w  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  every  man  is  not 
absolutely  free  to  choose  his  beliefs  ?  ” 

i  The  men  you  write  about  in  your  studies 
are,  but  not  the  men  we  see  in  the  real  world. 
There  is  some  apparentlv  congenital  defect  in 
uie  Indians,  for  instance,  that  keeps  them  from 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


noosing  civilization  and  Christianity.  So  with 
oe  Gypsies,  very  likely.  Everybody  knows  that 
Catholicism  or  Protestantism  is  a  good  deal  a 
natter  of  race.  Constitution  lias  more  to  do 
vitli  belief  than  people  think  for.  I  went  to  a 
'Jniversalist  church,  when  I  was  in  the  city  one 
lay,  to  hear  a  famous  man  whom  all  the  world 
ivnows,  and  I  never  saw  such  pews-full  of  broad 
shoulders  and  florid  faces,  and  substantial,  whole¬ 
some-looking  persons,  male  and  female,  in  all 
my  life.  Why,  it  was  astonishing.  Either  their 
creed  made  them  healthy,  or  they  chose  it  be¬ 
cause  they  were  healthy.  Your  folks  have  never 
got  the  hang  of  human  nature.” 

“  I  am  afraid  this  would  be  considered  a  de¬ 
grading  and  dangerous  view  of  human  beliefs 
and  responsibility  for  them,”  the  fteverend  Doc¬ 
tor  replied.  “  Prove  to  a  man  that  his  will  is 
governed  by  something  outside  of  himself,  and 
you  have  lost  all  hold  on  his  moral  and  religious 
nature.  There  is  nothing  bad  men  want  to  be¬ 
lieve  so  much  as  that  they  are  governed  by  neces¬ 
sity.  Now  that  which  is  at  once  degrading  and 
dangerous  cannot  be  true.” 

“  No  doubt,”  the  Doctor  replied,  “  all  larg 
views  of  mankind  limit  our  estimate  of  the  abso¬ 
lute  freedom  of  the  will.  But  I  don’t  think  it 
degrades  or  endangers  us,  for  this  reason,  that, 
while  B  makes  us  charitable  to  the  rest  of  man- 
tind,  o  rr  own  sense  of  freedom,  whatever  it  is,  ia 
Qever  a  Tected  by  argument.  Conscience  ivon’t  bt 


ET  SIE  ,  VENNER. 


y3 


reasoned  with.  We  feel  that  we  can  practi  .ally 
do  this  or  that,  and  if  we  choose  the  wron  j,  we 
know  we  are  responsible  ;  but  observation  v  aches 
us  that  this  or  that  other  race  or  individual  has 
not  the  same  practical  freedom  of  choice.  I  don’t 
see  how  we  can  avoid  this  conclusion  in  the  in¬ 
stance  of  the  American  Indians.  The  science  of 
Ethnology  has  upset  a  good  many  theoretical  no¬ 
tions  about  human  nature.” 

u  Science  1  ”  said  the  Reverend  Doctor,  “  sci¬ 
ence  !  that  was  a  word  the  Apostle  Paul  did  not 
seem  to  think  much  of,  if  we  may  judge  by  fhe 
Epistle  to  Timothy :  1  Oppositions  of  science 
falsely  so  called.’  I  own  that  I  am  jealous  of  that 
word  and  the  pretensions  that  go  with  it.  Sci¬ 
ence  has  seemed  to  me  to  be  very  often  only  the 
handmaid  of  skepticism.” 

“  Doctor !  ”  the  physician  said,  emphatically, 
“  science  is  knowledge.  Nothing  that  is  not 
known  properly  belongs  to  science.  Whenever 
knowledge  obliges  us  to  doubt,  we  are  always 
safe  in  doubting.  Astronomers  foretell  eclipses, 
say  how  long  comets  are  to  stay  with  us,  point 
out  where  a  new  planet  is  to  be  found.  We  see 
they  know  what  they  assert,  and  the  poor  old  Ro¬ 
man  Catholic  Church  has  at  last  to  knock  under. 
So  Geology  proves  a  certain  succession  of  events, 
and  the  best  Christian  in  the  world  must  make 
the  earth’s  history  square  with  it.  Besides,  I 
don’t  think  you  remember  whatgreat  revelations 
of  himself  the  Creator  has  made  in  the  minds  of 
&e  men  who  have  built  up  science.  You  seem 


594 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


to  ine  to  hold  his  human  masterpieces  very  cheap 
Don’t  you  think  the  ‘  inspiration  of  the  Almighty 
gave  Newton  and  Cuvier  ‘understanding’?” 

The  Reverend  Doctor  was  not  arguing  for  vic¬ 
tory.  In  fact,  what  he  wanted  was  to  call  out 
the  opinions  of  the  old  physician  by  a  show  of 
opposition,  being  already  predisposed  to  agree 
with  many  of  them.  He  was  rather  trying  the 
common  arguments,  as  one  tries  tricks  of  fence 
merely  to  learn  the  way  of  parrying.  But  just 
here  he  saw  a  tempting  opening,  and  could  not 
resist  giving  a  home-thrust. 

“  Yes ;  but  you  surely  would  not  consider  it 
inspiration  of  the  same  kind  as  that  of  the  writers 
of  the  Old  Testament  ?  ” 

That  cornered  the  Doctor,  and  he  paused  a  mo¬ 
ment  before  he  replied.  Then  he  raised  his  head, 
so  as  to  command  the  Reverend  Doctor’s  face 
through  his  spectacles,  and  said, — 

“  I  did  not  say  that.  You  are  clear,  I  suppose, 
that  the  Omniscient  spoke  through  Solomon,  but 
that  Shakspeare  wrote  without  his  help  ?  ” 

The  Reverend  Doctor  looked  very  grave.  It 
was  a  bold,  blunt  way  of  putting  the  question. 
He  turned  it  ^aside  with  the  remark,  that  Shak- 
opeare  seemed  to  him  at  times  to  come  as  near 
inspiration  as  any  human  being  not  included 
among  the  sacred  writers. 

“  Doctor,”  the  physician  began,  as  from  a 
audden  suggestion,  “  you  won’t  quarrel  with  me, 
if  I  tell  you  some  of  my  real  thoughts,  wiL 
rou  ?  ” 


ELSIE  VEKNER. 


395 


Say  on,  my  dear  Sir,  say  on,’’  the  ministe* 
answered,  with  his  most  genial  smile  ;  11  your  real 
thoughts  are  just  what  I  want  to  get  at.  A  man’s 
real  thoughts  are  a  great  rarity.  If  I  don’t  agree 
with  you,  I  shall  like  to  hear  you.” 

The  Doctor  began ;  and  in  order  to  give  his 
thoughts  more  connectedly,  we  will  omit  the  con¬ 
versational  breaks,  the  questions  and  comments 
of  the  clergyman,  and  all  accidental  interruptions. 

“  When  the  old  ecclesiastics  said  that  wheire 
there  were  three  doctors  there  were  two  atheists, 
they  lied,  of  course.  They  called  everybody  who 
differed  from  them  atheists,  until  they  found  out 
that  not  believing  in  God  wasn’t  nearly  so  ugly  a 
crime  as  not  believing  in  some  particular  dogma ; 
then  they  called  them  heretics ,  until  so  many 
good  people  had  been  burned  under  that  name 
that  it  began  to  smell  too  strong  of  roasting  flesh, 
■ —  and  after  that  infidels ,  which  properly  means 
people  without  faith,  of  whom  there  are  not  a 
great  many  in  any  place  or  time.  But  then,  of 
course,  there  was  some  reason  why  doctors 
shouldn’t  think  about  religion  exactly  as  minis¬ 
ters  did,  or  they  never  would  have  made  that 
proverb.  It’s  very  likely  that  something  of  the 
same  kind  is  true  now;  whether  it  is  so  or  not,  I 
am  going  to  tell  you  the  reasons  why  it  would 
not  be  strange,  if  doctors  should  take  rather  dif¬ 
ferent  views  from  clergymen  about  some  matters 
ol  belief.  I  don’t,  of  course,  mean  all  doctors 


390 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


nor  all  clergymen.  Some  doctors  go  as  far  as 
any  old  New-England  divine,  and  some  clergy¬ 
men  agree  very  well  with  the  doctors  that  think 
least  according  to  rule. 

u  To  begin  with  their  ideas  of  the  Creator  him¬ 
self.  They  always  see  him  trying  to  help  his 
creatures  out  of  their  troubles.  A  man  no  sooner 
gets  a  cut,  than  the  Great  Physician,  whose  agen¬ 
cy  we  often  call  Nature ,  goes  to  work,  first  to  stop 
the  blood,  and  then  to  heal  the  wound,  and  then 
to  make  the  scar  as  small  as  possible.  If  a  man’s 
pain  exceeds  a  certain  amount,  he  faints,  and  so 
gets  relief.  If  it  lasts  too  long,  habit  comes  in  to 
make  it  tolerable.  If  it  is  altogether  too  bad,  he 
dies.  That  is  the  best  thing  to  be  done  under  the 
circumstances.  So  you  see,  the  doctor  is  con¬ 
stantly  in  presence  of  a  benevolent  agency  work¬ 
ing  against  a  settled  order  of  things,  of  which 
pain  and  disease  are  the  accidents,  so  to  speak. 
Well,  no  doubt  they  find  it  harder  than  clergymen 
to  believe  that  there  can  be  any  world  or  state 
from  which  this  benevolent  agency  is  wholly  ex¬ 
cluded.  This  may  be  very  wrong ;  but  it  is  not 
unnatural.  They  can  hardly  conceive  of  a  per¬ 
manent  state  of  being  in  which  cuts  would  never 
try  to  heal,  nor  habit  render  suffering  endurable. 
This  is  one  effect  of  their  training. 

“  Then,  again,  their  attention  is  very  much 
called  to  human  limitations.  Ministers  work  out 
the  machinery  of  responsibility  in  an  abstract  kind 
of  way ;  they  have  a  sort  of  algebra  of  huruar 


ELSIE  'TENNER. 


397 


nature,  in  which  friction  and  strength  (or  weak - 
ness)  of  material  are  left  out.  You  see,  a  doctor 
is  in  the  way  of  studying  children  from  the  mo¬ 
ment  of  birth  upwards.  For  the  first  year  or  so 
Ke  sees  that  they  are  just  as  much  pupils  of  their 
Maker  as  the  young  of  any  other  animals.  Well, 
their  Maker  trains  them  to  pure  selfishness . 
Why  ?  In  order  that  they  may  be  sure  to  take 
care  of  themselves.  Bo  you  see,  when  a  child 
comes  to  be,  we  will  say  a  year  and  a  day  old, 
and  makes  his  first  choice  between  right  and 
wrong,  he  is  at  a  disadvantage ;  for  he  has  that 
vis  a  tergo ,  as  we  doctors  call  it,  that  force  from 
behind,  of  a  whole  year’s  life  of  selfishness,  for 
which  he  is  no  more  to  blame  than  a  calf  is  to 
blame  for  having  lived  in  the  same  way,  purely 
to  gratify  his  natural  appetites.  Then  we  see 
that  baby  grow  up  to  a  child,  and,  if  he  is  fat  and 
stout  and  red  and  lively,  we  expect  to  find  him 
troublesome  and  noisy,  and,  perhaps,  sometimes 
disobedient  more  or  less  ;  that’s  the  way  each  new 
generation  breaks  its  egg-shell ;  but  if  he  is  very 
weak  and  thin,  and  is  one  of  the  kind  that  may 
be  expected  to  die  early,  he  will  very  likely  sit  ill 
the  house  all  day  and  read  good  books  about 
other  little  sharp-faced  children  just  like  himself, 
.  who  died  early,  having  always  been  perfectly  in¬ 
different  to  all  the  out-door  amusements  of  the 
wicked  little  red-cheeked  children.  Some  of  the 
little  folks  we  watch  grow  up  to  be  young  women, 
and  occasionally  one  of  them  gets  nervous,  wlia. 


398 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


we  call  hysterical,  and  then  that  girl  will  begin  to 
play  all  sorts  of  pranks,  —  to  lie  and  cheat,  per 
haps,  in  the  most  unaccountable  way,  so  that  she 
might  seem  to  a  minister  a  good  exampie  of  total 
depravity.  We  don’t  see  her  in  that  light.  We 
give  her  iron  and  valerian,  and  get  her  on  horse¬ 
back,  if  we  can,  and  so  expect  to  make  her  will 
come  all  right  again.  By-and-by  we  are  called 
in  to  see  an  old  baby,  threescore  years  and  ten  or 
more  old.  We  find  this  old  baby  has  never  got 
rid  of  that  first  year’s  teaching  which  led  him  to 
fill  his  stomach  with  all  he  could  pump  into  it, 
and  his  hands  with  everything  he  could  grab. 
People  call  him  a  miser.  We  are  sorry  for  him; 
but  we  can’t  help  remembering  his  first  year’s 
training,  and  the  natural  effect  of  money  on  the 
great  majority  of  those  that  have  it.  So  while 
the  ministers  say  he  4  shall  hardly  enter  into  the 
kingdom  of  heaven,’  we  like  to  remind  them  that 
4  with  God  all  things  are  possible.’ 

44  Once  more,  we  see  all  kinds  of  monomania 
and  insanity.  We  learn  from  them  to  recognize 
all  sorts  of  queer  tendencies  in  minds  supposed 
to  be  sane,  so  that  we  have  nothing  but  compas¬ 
sion  for  a  large  class  of  persons  condemned  as 
Binners  by  theologians,  but  considered  by  us  as 
invalids.  We  have  constant  reasons  for  noticing* 
the  transmission  of  qualities  from  parents  to  off¬ 
spring,  and  we  find  it  hard  to  hold  a  child  ac¬ 
countable  in  any  moral  point  of  view  for  inherited 
bad  temper  or  tendency  to  drunkenness, — as  hare 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


399 


tts  we  should  to  blame  him  for  inheriting  gont  or 
asthma.  I  suppose  we  are  more  lenient  with  hu¬ 
man  nature  than  theologians  generally  are.  We 
know  that  the  spirits  of  men  and  their  -views  of 
the  present  and  the  future  go  up  and  down  with 
the  barometer,  and  that  a  permanent  depression 
of  one  inch  in  the  mercurial  column  would  affect 
the  whole  theology  of  Christendom. 

u  Ministers  talk  about  the  human  will  as  if  it 
stood  on  a  high  look-out,  with  plenty  of  light, 
and  elbow-room  reaching  to  the  horizon.  Doc¬ 
tors  are  constantly  noticing  how  it  is  tied  up  and 
darkened  by  inferior  organization,  by  disease,  and 
all  sorts  of  crowding  interferences,  until  they  get 
to  look  upon  Hottentots  and  Indians  —  and  a 
good  many  of  their  own  race  —  as  a  kind  of  self- 
conscious  blood-clocks  with  very  limited  power 
of  self-determination.  That’s  the  tendency ,  I  say, 
of  a  doctor’s  experience.  But  the  people  to  whom 
they  address  their  statements  of  the  results  of 
their  observation  belong  to  the  thinking  class  of 
the  highest  races,  and  they  are  conscious  of  a 
great  deal  of  liberty,  of  will.  So  in  the  face,  of 
the  fact  that  civilization  with  all  it  offers  has 
proved  a  dead  failure  with  the  aboriginal  races  ot 
this  country,  —  on  the  whole,  I  say,  a  dead  fail¬ 
ure,— -they  talk  as  if  they  knew  from  their  own 
will  all  about  that  of  a  Digger  Indian!  We  are 
more  apt  to  go  by  observation  of  the  facts  in  the 
case.  We  are  constantly  seeing  weakness  where 
you  see  depravity.  I  don’t  say  we’re  right;  I 


400 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


only  tell  what  you  must  often  find  to  be  the  fact* 
right  or  wrong,  in  talking  with  doctors.  You  see, 
too,  our  notions  of  bodily  and  moral  disease,  or 
sin,  are  apt  to  go  together.  We  used  to  be  as  hard 
on  sickness  as  you  were  on  sin.  We  know  better 
now.  We  don’t  look  at  sickness  as  we  used  to3 
and  try  to  poison  it  with  everything  that  is  ofTen« 
sive,  —  burnt  toads  and  earth-worms  and  vipers 
broth,  and  worse  things  than  these.  We  know 
that  disease  has  something  back  of  it  which  the 
body  isn’t  to  blame  for,  at  least  in  most  cases, 
and  which  very  often  it  is  trying  to  get  rid  of. 
Just  so  with  sin.  I  will  agree  to  take  a  hundred 
new-born  babes  of  a  certain  stock  and  return 
seventy-five  of  them  in  a  dozen  years  true  and 
honest,  if  not  (  pious  ’  children.  And  I  will  take 
another  hundred,  of  a  different  stock,  and  put 
them  in  the  hands  of  certain  Ann-Street  or  Five- 
Points  teachers,  and  seventy-five  of  them  will  be 
thieve  j  and  liars  at  the  end  of  the  same  dozen 
years.  I  have  heard  of  an  old  character,  Colonel 
Jaques,  I  believe  it  was,  a  famous  cattle-breeder, 
who  used  to  say  he  could  breed  to  pretty  much 
any  pattern  he  wanted  to.  Well,  we  doctors  see 
so  much  of  families,  how  the  tricks  of  the  blood 
keep  breaking  out,  just  as  much  in  character  as 
they  do  in  looks,  that  we  can’t  help  feeling  as  ii 
a  great  many  people  hadn’t  a  fair  chance  to  be 
what  is  called  ‘  good,’  and  that  there  isn’t  a  texx 
in  the  Bible  better  worth  keeping  always  in  mind 
than  that  one,  i  Judge  not,  that  ye  be  noi 
judged.’ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


401 


u  As  for  our  getting  any  quarter  at  the  hands 
of  theologians,  we  don’t  expect  it,  and  have  no 
right  to.  You  don’t  give  each  other  any  quarter 
I  have  had  two  religious  books  sent  me  by  friends 
within  a  week  or  two.  One  is  Mr.  Brownson’s; 
he  is  as  fair  and  square  as  Euclid  ;  a  real  honest, 
strong  thinker,  and  one  that  knows  what  he  is 
talking  about,  —  for  he  has  tried  all  sorts  of  re¬ 
ligions,  pretty  much.  He  tells  us  that  the  Roman 
Catholic  Church  is  the  one  4  through  which  alone 
we  can  hope  for  heaven.’  The  other  is  by  a 
worthy  Episcopal  rector,  who  appears  to  write  as 
if  he  were  in  earnest,  and  he  calls  the  Papacy  the 
1  Devil’s  Masterpiece,’  and  talks  about  the  4  Sa¬ 
tanic  scheme  ’  of  that  very  Church  4  through 
which  alone,’  as  Mr.  Brownson  tells  us,  4  we  can 
hope  for  heaven’!  What’s  the  use  in  our  caring 
about  hard  words  after  this,  — 4  atheists,’  heretics, 
infidels,  and  the  like  ?  They’re,  after  all,  only 
the  cinders  picked  up  out  of  those  heaps  of  ashes 
round  the  stumps  of  the  old  stakes  where  they 
used  to  burn  men,  women,  and  children  for  not 
thinking  just  like  other  folks.  They’ll  ‘crock’ 
your  fingers,  but  they  can’t  burn  us. 

44  Doctors  are  the  best-natured  people  in  the 
world,  except  when  they  get  fighting  with  each 
other.  And  they  have  some  advantages  over 
you,  YTou  inherit  your  nations  from  a  set  of 
priests  that  had  no  wives  and  no  children,  or 
none  to  speak  of,  and  so  let  their  humanity  die 
out  of  them.  It  didn’t  seem  much  to  them  to 

23 


402 


ELSIE  VENEER. 


condemn  a  few  thousand  millions  of  people  i* 
purgatory  or  worse  for  a  mistake  of  judgment 
They  didn’t  know  what  it  was  to  have  a  chilu 
look  up  in  their  faces  and  say  ‘  Father!’  It  wiL 
take  you  a  hundred  or  two  more  years  to  get  de¬ 
cently  humanized,  after  so  many  centuries  of  de¬ 
humanizing  celibacy. 

“  Besides,  though  our  libraries  are,  perhaps,  not 
commonly  quite  so  big  as  yours,  God  opens  one 
book  to  physicians  that  a  good  many  of  you 
don’t  know  much  about,  —  the  Book  of  Life. 
That  is  none  of  your  dusty  folios  with  black 
letters  between  pasteboard  and  leather,  but  it  is 
printed  in  bright  red  type,  and  the  binding  of  it 
is  warm  and  tender  to  every  touch.  They  rever¬ 
ence  that  book  as  one  of  the  ^Almighty’s  infallible 
revelations.  They  will  insist  on  reading  you  les¬ 
sons  out  of  it,  whether  you  call  them  names  or 
not.  These  will  always  be  lessons  of  charity. 
No  doubt,  nothing  can  be  more  provoking  to 
listen  to.  But  do  beg  your  folks  to  remember 
that  the  Smithfield  fires  are  all  out,  and  that  the 
linders  are  very  dirty  and  not  in  the  least  danger¬ 
ous.  They’d  a  great  deal  better  be  civil,  and  not 
be  throwing  old  proverbs  in  the  doctors’  faces, 
when  they  say  that  the  man  of  the  old  monkish 
notions  is  one  thing  aild  the  man  they  watch 
from  his  cradle  to  his  coffin  is  something  very 
different.” 

It  has  cost  a  good  deal  of  trouble  to  worn  th« 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


403 


Doctor's  talk  up  into  this  formal  shape.  Some 
of  his  sentences  have  been  rounded  off  for  him, 
and.  the  whole  brought  into  a  more  rhetorical 
form  than  it  could  have  pretended  to,  if  taken 
as  it  fell  from  his  lips.  But  the  exact  course  of 
his  remarks  has  been  followed,  and  as  far  as  pos¬ 
sible  his  expressions  have  been  retained.  Though 
given  in  the  form  of  a  discourse,  it  must  be  re¬ 
membered  that  this  was  a  conversation,  much 
more  fragmentary  and  colloquial  than  it  seems 
as  just  read. 

The  Reverend  Doctor  was  very  far  from  taking 
offence  at  the  old  physician’s  freedom  of  speech. 
He  knew  him  to  be  honest,  kind,  charitable,  self- 
denying,  wherever  any  sorrow  was  to  be  alleviat¬ 
ed,  always  reverential,  with  a  cheerful  trust  in  the 
great  Father  of  all  mankind.  To  be  sure,  his 
senior  deacon,  old  Deacon  Shearer, — who  seemed 
to  have  got  his  Scripture-teachings  out  of  the 
u  Vinegar  Bible,”  (the  one  where  Vineyard  is 
misprinted  Vinegar ,  which  a  good  many  people 
seem  to  have  adopted  as  the  true  reading,)  —  his 
senior  deacon  had  called  Dr.  Kittredge  an  “infi- 
del.”  But  the  Reverend  Doctor  could  not  help 
feeling,  that,  unless  the  text,  “  By  their  fruits  ye 
shall  know  them,”  were  an  interpolation,  the 
Doctor  was  the  better  Chrisiian  of  the  two. 
Whatever  his  senior  deacon  might  think  about 
it,  he  said  to  himself  tha*  he  shouldn’t  be  sur¬ 
prised  if  he  met  the  Doctor  in  heaven  yet,  inquir* 
ing  anxiously  after  old  Deacon  Shearer* 


404 


ELSIE  VE^NER. 


He  was  on  the  point  of  expressing  himself  very 
frankly  to  the  Doctor,  with  that  benevolent  smile 
on  his  face  which  had  sometimes  come  near 
giving  offence  to  the  readers  of  the  “  Vinegar ” 
edition,  but  he  saw  that  the  physician’s  attention 
had  been  arrested  by  Elsie.  He  looked  in  the 
same  direction  himself,  and  could  not  help  being 
struck  by  her  attitude  and  expression.  There 
was  something  singularly  graceful  in  the  curves 
of  her  neck  and  the  rest  of  her  figure,  but  she 
was  so  perfectly  still  that  it  seemed  as  if  she  were 
hardly  breathing.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the 
young  girl  with  whom  Mr.  Bernard  was  talking. 
He  had  often  noticed  their  brilliancy,  but  now  it 
seemed  to  him  that  they  appeared  dull,  and  the 
look  on  her  features  was  as  of  some  passion 
which  had  missed  its  stroke.  Mr.  Bernard’s 
companion  seemed  unconscious  that  she  was 
the  object  of  this  attention,  and  was  listening 
fb  the  young  master  as  if  he  had  succeeded  in 
making  himself  very  agreeable. 

Of  course  Dick  Venner  had  not  mistaken  the 

game  that  was  going  on.  The  school-master 

meant  to  make  Elsie  jealous,  —  and  he  had  done 

it.  That’s  it:  get  her  savage  first,  and  then  come 

wheedling  round  her,— -a  sure  trick,  if  he  isn’t 

headed  off  somehow.  But  Dick  saw  well  enough 

*_/ 

that  he  had  better  let  Elsie  alone  just  now,  and 
thought  the  best  way  of  killing  the  evening  would 
be  to  amuse  himself  in  a  little  lively  talk  with 
Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  and  incidentally  to  shotf 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


405 


Elsie  that  he  could  make  himself  acceptable  to 
other  women,  if  not  to  herself. 

The  Doctor  presently  went  up  to  Elsie,  detea 
mined  to  engage  her  in  conversation  and  get  her 
out  of  her  thoughts,  which  he  saw,  by  her  look, 
were  dangerous.  Her  father  had  been  on  the 
point  of  leaving  Helen  Darley  to  go  to  her,  but 
felt  easy  enough  when  he  saw  the  old  Doctor  at 
her  side,  and  so  went  on  talking.  The  Reverend 
Doctor,  being  now  left  alone,  engaged  the  Widow 
Rowens,  who  put  the  best  face  on  her  vexation 
she  could,  but  was  devoting  herself  to  all  the 
underground  deities  for  having  been  such  a  fool 
as  to  ask  that  pale-faced  thing  from  the  Institute 
to  fill  up  her  party. 

There  is  no  space  left  to  report  the  rest  of  the 
conversation.  If  there  was  anything  of  any  sig¬ 
nificance  in  it,  it  will  turn  up  by-and-by,  no  doubt. 
At  ten  o’clock  the  Reverend  Doctor  called  Miss 
Letty,  who  had  no  idea  it  was  so  late ;  Mr.  Ber¬ 
nard  gave  his  arm  to  Helen ;  Mr.  Richard  saw  to 
Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer;  the  Doctor  gave  Elsie  a 
cautioning  look,  and  went  off  alone,  thoughtful ; 
Dudley  Venner  and  his  daughter  got  into  their 
carriage  and  were  whirled  away.  The  Widow’s 
gambit  was  played,  and  she  had  not  won  the 
game. 


406 


ELSIE  VENNEB. 


CHAPTER  XXIII. 

THE  WILD  HUNTSMAN. 

Tiie  young  master  had  not  forgotten  the  old 
Doctor’s  cautions.  Without  attributing  any  great 
importance  to  the  warning  he  had  given  him, 
Mr.  Bernard  had  so  far  complied  with  his  advice 
that  he  was  becoming  a  pretty  good  shot  with 
the  pistol.  It  was  an  amusement  as  good  as 
many  others  to  practise,  and  he  had  taken  a 
fancy  to  it  after  the  first  few  days. 

The  popping  of  a  pistol  at  odd  hours  in  the 
back-yard  of  the  Institute  was  a  phenomenon 
more  than  sufficiently  remarkable  to  be  talked 
about  in  Rockland.  The  viscous  intelligence  of 
a  country-village  is  not  easily  stirred  by  the 
winds  which  ripple  the  fluent  thought  of  great 
cities,  but  it  holds  every  straw  and  entangles 
every  insect  that  lights  upon  it.  It  soon  became 
rumored  in  the  town  that  the  young  master  was 
a  wonderful  shot  with  the  pistol.  Some  said  he 
could  hit  a  fo’pence-ha’penny  at  three  rod  ;  some 
that  he  had  shot  a  swallow,  flying,  with  a  single 
ball;  some,  that  he  snuffed  a  candle  five  timei 
out  of  six  at  ten  paces,  and  that  he  could  hi 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


407 


iuy  button  in  a  man’s  coat  he  wanted  to.  In 
other  words,  as  in  ail  such  cases,  all  the  common 
feats  were  ascribed  to  him,  as  the  current  jokes 
of  the  day  are  laid  at  the  door  of  any  noted  wit, 
however  innocent  he  may  be  of  them. 

In  the  natural  course  of  things,  Mr.  Richard 
Venner,  who  had  by  this  time  made  some  ac¬ 
quaintances,  as  we  have  seen,  among  that  class 
of  the  population  least  likely  to  allow  a  live 
cinder  of  gossip  to  go  out  for  want  of  air,  had 
heard  incidentally  that  the  master  up  there  at  the 
Institute  was  all  the  time  practising  with  a  pistol, 
that  they  say  he  can  snuff  a  candle  at  ten  rods, 
(that  was  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer’s  version,)  and 
that  he  could  hit  anybody  he  wanted  to  right  in 
the  eye,  as  far  as  he  could  see  the  white  of  it. 

Dick  did  not  like  the  sound  of  all  this  any  too 
well.  Without  believing  more  than  half  of  it, 
there  was  enough  to  make  the  Yankee  school¬ 
master  too  unsafe  to  be  trifled  with.  However, 
shooting  at  a  mark  was  pleasant  work  enough  ; 
he  had  no  particular  objection  to  it  himself. 
Only  he  did  not  care  so  much  for  those  little 
popgun  affairs  that  a  man  carries  in  his  pocket 
and  with  which  you  couldn’t  shoot  a  fellow,  — 
a  robber,  say,  —  without  getting  the  muzzle  under 
his  nose.  Pistols  for  boys;  long-range  rifles  for 
men.  There  was  such  a  gun  lying  in  a  closet 
with  the  fowling-pieces.  He  would  go  out  into 
the  fields  and  see  what  he  could  do  as  a  marks¬ 


man. 


108 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


The  nature  of  the  mark  which  Dick  chose  foi 
experimenting  upon  was  singular.  He  had  found 
some  panes  of  glass  which  had  been  removed 
from  an  old  sash,  and  he  placed  these  succes¬ 
sively  before  his  target,  arranging  them  at  differ¬ 
ent  angles.  He  found  that  a  bullet  would  go 
through  the  glass  without  glancing  or  having  its 
force  materially  abated.  It  was  an  interesting 
fact  in  physics,  and  might  prove  of  some  prac¬ 
tical  significance  hereafter.  Nobody  knows  what 
may  turn  up  to  render  these  out-of-the-way  facts 
useful.  All  this  was  done  in  a  quiet  way  in  one 
of  the  bare  spots  high  up  the  side  of  The  Moun¬ 
tain.  He  was  very  thoughtful  in  taking  the  pre¬ 
caution  to  get  so  far  away ;  rifle-bullets  are  apt 
to  glance  and  come  whizzing  about  people’s  ears, 
if  they  are  fired  in  the  neighborhood  of  houses. 
Dick  satisfied  himself  that  he  could  be  tolerably 
sure  of  hitting  a  pane  of  glass  at  a  distance  of 
thirty  rods,  more  or  less,  and  that,  if  there  hap¬ 
pened  to  be  anything  behind  it,  the  glass  would 
not  materially  alter  the  force  or  direction  of  the 
bullet 

About  this  time  it  occurred  to  him  also  that 
there  was  an  old  accomplishment  of  his  which 
he  would  be  in  danger  of  losing  for  want  of 
practice,  if  he  did  not  take  some  opportunity  to 
try  his  hand  and  regain  its  cunning,  if  it  had  be 
gun  to  be  diminished  by  disuse.  For  his  firs* 
trial,  he  chose  an  evening  when  the  moon  was 
fthining,  and  after  the  hour  when  the  Rockland 


ELSIE  VENNER, 


409 


people  were  like  to  be  stirring  abroad.  He  was 
bo  far  established  now  that  he  could  do  much  as 
he  pleased  without  exciting  remark. 

The  prairie  horse  he  rode,  the  mustang  of  the 
Pampas,  wild  as  he  was,  had  been  trained  to  take 
part  in  at  least  one  exercise.  This  was  th 
accomplishment  in  which  Mr.  Richard  now  pro 
posed  to  try  himself.  For  this  purpose  he  sought 
the  implement  of  which,  as  it  may  be  remem¬ 
bered,  he  had  once  made  an  incidental  use,  —  the 
lasso ,  or  long  strip  of  hide  with  a  slip-noose  at 
the  end  of  it.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  play¬ 
ing  with  such  a  thong  from  his  boyhood,  and  had 
become  expert  in  its  use  in  capturing  wild  cattle 
in  the  course  of  his  adventures.  Unfortunately, 
there  were  no  wild  bulls  likely  to  be  met  with  in 
the  neighborhood,  to  become  the  subjects  of  his 
skill.  A  stray  cow  in  the  road,  an  ox  or  a  horse 
in  a  pasture,  must  serve  his  turn,  —  dull  beasts, 
but  moving  marks  to  aim  at,  at  any  rate. 

Never,  since  he  had  galloped  in  the  chase  over 
the  Pampas,  had  Dick  Venner  felt  such  a  sense 
of  life  and  power  as  when  he  struck  the  long 
spurs  into  his  wild  horse’s  flanks,  and  dashed 
p.long  the  road  with  the  lasso  lying  like  a  coiled 
snake  at  the  saddle-bow.  In  skilful  hands,  the 
silent,  bloodless  noose,  flying  like  an  arrow,  but 
not  like  that  leaving  a  wound  behind  it,  —  sud¬ 
den  as  a  pistol-shot,  but  without  the  tell-tale 
explosion.  —  is  one  of  the  most  fearful  and  mys¬ 
terious  weapons  that  arm  the  hand  of  man.  The 


410 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


old  Komans  knew  how  formidable,  even  in  con* 
test  with  a  gladiator  equipped  with  sword,  helmet, 
and  shield,  was  the  almost  naked  retiarius ,  with 
his  net  in  one  hand  and  his  three-pronged  javelin 
in  the  other.  Once  get  a  net  over  a  man’s  head, 
or  a  cord  round  his  neck,  or,  what  is  more  fre¬ 
quently  done  nowadays,  bonnet  him  by  knocking 
his  hat  down  over  his  eyes,  and  he  is  at  the 
mercy  of  his  opponent.  Our  soldiers  who  served 
against  the  Mexicans  found  this  out  too  well. 
Many  a  poor  fellow  has  been  lassoed  by  the  fierce 
riders  from  the  plains,  and  fallen  an  easy  victim 
to  the  captor  who  had  snared  him  in  the  fatal 
noose. 

But,  imposing  as  the  sight  of  the  wild  hunts¬ 
men  of  the  Pampas  might  have  been,  Dick  could 
not  help  laughing  at  the  mock  sublimity  of  his 
situation,  as  he  tried  his  first  experiment  on  an 
unhappy  milky  mother  who  had  strayed  from  her 
herd  and  was  wandering  disconsolately  along 
the  road,  laying  the  dust,  as  she  went,  with 
thready  streams  from  her  swollen,  swinging  ud¬ 
ders.  “  Here  goes  the  Don  at  the  windmill !  ” 
said  Dick,  and  tilted  full  speed  at  her,  whirling 
the  lasso  round  his  head  as  he  rode.  The  crea¬ 
ture  swerved  to  one  side  of  the  way,  as  the  wild 
horse  and  his  rider  came  rushing  down  upon 
her,  and  presently  turned  and  ran,  as  only  cows 

''  \  and - it  wouldn’t  be  safe  to  say  it  —  can  run. 

Just  before  he  passed,  —  at  twenty  or  thirty  fee4 
f*om  her,  —  the  lasso  shot  from  his  hand,  un 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


411 


coiling  as  it  flew,  and  in  an  instant  its  loop  was 
round  her  horns.  “  Well  cast !  ”  said  Dick,  as 
he  galloped  up  to  her  side  and  dexterously  dis¬ 
engaged  the  lasso.  “  Now  for  a  horse  on  the 
Ann !  ” 

lie  had  the  good  luck  to  find  one,  presently, 
grazing  in  a  pasture  at  the  road-side.  Taking 
down  the  rails  of  the  fence  at  one  point,  he  drove 
the  horse  into  the  road  and  gave  chase.  It  was 
a  lively  young  animal  enough,  and  was  easily 
roused  to  a  pretty  fast  pace,  As  his  gallop  grew 
more  and  more  rapid,  Dick  gave  the  reins  to  the 
mustang,  until  the  two  horses  stretched  them¬ 
selves  out  in  their  longest  strides.  If  the  first 
feat  looked  like  play,  the  one  he  was  now  to 
attempt  had  a  good  deal  the  appearance  of  real 
work.  He  touched  the  mustang  with  the  spur, 
and  in  a  few  fierce  leaps  found  himself  nearly 
abreast  of  the  frightened  animal  he  was  chasing. 
Once  more  he  whirled  the  lasso  round  and  round 
over  his  head,  and  then  shot  it  forth,  as  the 
rattlesnake  shoots  his  head  from  the  loops  against 
which  it  rests.  The  noose  was  round  the  horse’s' 
neck,  and  in  another  instant  was  tightened  so 
as  almost  to  stop  his  breath.  The  prairie  horse 
inew  the  trick  of  the  cord,  and  leaned  away 
from  the  captive,  so  as  to  keep  the  thong  tensely 
stretched  between  his  neck  and  the  peak  of  the 
saddle  to  which  it  was  fastened  Struggling  was 
of  no  use  with  a  halter  round  nis  windpipe,  and 
he  very  soon  began  to  tremble  and  stagger,  — 


412 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


blind,  no  doubt,  and  with  a  roaring  in  his  ears  aa 
of  a  thousand  battle-trumpets, —  at  any  rate 
subdued  and  helpless.  That  was  enough.  Dick 
loosened  his  lasso,  wound  it  up  again,  laid  it  like 
a  pet  snake  in  a  coil  at  his  saddle-bow,  turned 
his  horse,  and  rode  slowly  along  towards  the 
mansion-house. 

The  place  had  never  looked  more  stately  and 
beautiful  to  him  than  as  he  now  saw  it  in  the. 
moonlight.  The  undulations  of  the  land,  —  the 
grand  mountain-screen  which  sheltered  the  man¬ 
sion  from  the  northern  blasts,  rising  with  all  its 
hanging  forests  and  parapets  of  naked  rock  high 
towards  the  heavens,  —  the  ancient  mansion,  with 
its  square  chimneys,  and  body-guard  of  old  trees, 
and  cincture  of  low  walls  with  marble-pillared 
gateways,  —  the  fields,  with  their  various  cover¬ 
ings, —  the  beds  of  flowers,  —  the  plots  of  turf, 
one  with  a  gray  column  in  its  centre  bearing  a 
sun-dial  on  which  the  rays  of  the  moon  were  idly 
shining,  another  with  a  white  stone  and  a  nar¬ 
row  ridge  of  turf,  —  over  all  these  objects,  har¬ 
monized  with  all  their  infinite  details  into  one 
fair  whole  by  the  moonlight,  the  prospective  heir 
as  he  deemed  himself,  looked  with  admiring  eyes 

Bat  while  he  looked,  the  thought  rose  up  in 
ais  mind  like  waters  from  a  poisoned  fountain, 
that  there  was  a  deep  plot  laid  to  cheat  him  of 
the  inheritance  which  by  a  double  claim  he  meant 
to  call  his  own.  Every  day  this  ice-cold  beauty 
this  dangerous,  handsome  cousin  of  his,  went  up 


413 


ELSIE  VENNER. 

to  that  place,  —  that  usher’s  girl-trap.  Every  day, 
—  regularly  now,  —  it  used  to  be  different.  Did 
she  go  only  to  get  out  of  his,  her  cousin’s,  reach  ?  * 
Was  she  not  rather  becoming  more  and  more  in¬ 
volved  in  the  toils  of  this  plotting  Yankee  ? 

If  IVIr.  Bernard  had  shown  himself  at  that  mo¬ 
ment  a  few  rods  in  advance,  the  chances  are  that 
in  less  than  one  minute  he  would  have  found 

himself  with  a  noose  round  his  neck,  at  the  heels 

/ 

of  a  mounted  horseman.  Providence  spared  him 
for  the  present.  Mr.  Richard  rode  his  horse 
quietly  round  to  the  stable,  put  him  up,  and  pro¬ 
ceeded  towards  the  house.  He  got  to  his  bed 
without  disturbing  the  family,  but  could  not 
sleep.  The  idea  had  fully  taken  possession  of 
his  mind  that  a  deep  intrigue  was  going  on  which 
would  end  by  bringing  Elsie  and  the  school-mas¬ 
ter  into  relations  fatal  to  all  his  own  hopes.  With 
that  ingenuity  which  always  accompanies  jeal¬ 
ousy,  he  tortured  every  circumstance  of  the  last 
few  weeks  so  as  to  make  it  square  with  this  be¬ 
lief.  From  this  vein  of  thought  he  naturally  passed 
to  a  consideration  of  every  possible  method  by 
which  the  issue  he  feared  might  be  avoided. 

Mr.  Richard  talked  very  plain  language  with 
nimself  in  all  these  inward  colloquies.  Suppos¬ 
ing  it  came  to  the  worst,  what  could  be  done 
then  ?  First,  an  accident  might  happen  to  the 
school-master  which  should  put  a  complete  and 
final  check  upon  his  projects  and  contrivances. 
The  particular  accident  which  might  interrupt  his 


414 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


career  must,  evidently,  be  determined  Dy  circum¬ 
stances;  but  it  must  be  of  a  nature  to  explain 
itself  without  the  necessity  of  any  particular  per¬ 
son’s  becoming  involved  in  the  matter.  It  would 
be  unpleasant  to  go  into  particulars ;  but  every¬ 
body  knows  well  enough  that  men  sometimes 
get  in  the  way  of  a  stray  bullet,  and  that  young 
persons  occasionally  do  violence  to  themselves  in 
various  modes,  —  by  fire-arms,  suspension,  and 
other  means,  —  in  consequence  of  disappoint¬ 
ment  in  love,  perhaps,  oftener  than  from  other 
motives.  There  was  still  another  kind  of  acci¬ 
dent  which  might  serve  his  purpose.  If  anything 
should  happen  to  Elsie,  it  would  be  the  most 
natural  thing  in  the  world  that  his  uncle  should 
adopt  him,  his  nephew  and  only  near  relation,  as 
his  heir.  Unless,  indeed,  Uncle  Dudley  should 
take  it  into  his  head  to  marry  again.  In  that 
case,  where  would  he,  Dick,  be  ?  This  was  the 
most  detestable  complication  which  he  could 
conceive  of.  And  yet  he  had  noticed  —  he  could 
not  help  noticing  —  that  his  uncle  had  been  very 
attentive  to,  and,  as  it  seemed,  very  much  pleased 
with,  that  young  woman  from  the  school.  What 
lid  that  mean  ?  Was  it  possible  that  he  was 
going  to  take  a  fancy  to  her  ? 

It  made  him  wild  to  think  of  all  the  several 
contingencies  which  might  defraud  him  of  tha+ 
good-fortune  which  seemed  but  just  now  within 
his  grasp.  He  glared  in  the  darkness  at  imag 
inary  faces :  sometimes  at  that  of  the  handsome 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


415 


treacherous  school-master ;  sometimes  at  tharl(  of 
the  meek-looking,  but,  no  doubt,  scheming,  ladv- 
teacher  ;  sometimes  at  that  of  the  dark  girl  whom- 
he  was  ready  to  make  his  wife ;  sometimes  at 
that  of  his  much  respected  uncle,  who,  of  course, 
could  not  be  allowed  to  peril  the  fortunes  of  his 
relatives  by  forming  a  new  connection.  It  was 
a  frightful  perplexity  in  which  he  found  himself, 
because  there  was  no  one  single  life  an  accident 
to  which  would  be  sufficient  to  insure  the  fitting 
and  natural  course  of  descent  to  the  great  Dud¬ 
ley  property.  If  it  had  been  a  simple  question 
of  helping  forward  a  casualty  to  any  one  person, 
there  was  nothing  in  Dick’s  habits  of  thought  and 
living  to  make  that  a  serious  difficulty.  He  had 
been  so  much  with  lawless  people,  that  a  life  be¬ 
tween  his  wish  and  his  object  seemed  only  as  an 
obstacle  to  be  removed,  provided  the  object  were 
worth  the  risk  and  trouble.  But  if  there  were 
two  or  three  lives  in  the  way,  manifestly  that  al- 
•ered  the  case. 

His  Southern  blood  was  getting  impatient. 
There  was  enough  of  the  New-Englander  about 
him  to  make  him  calculate  his  chances  before  he 
struck ;  but  his  plans  were  liable  to  be  defeated 
at  any  moment  by  a  passionate  'mpulse  such  as 
the  dark-hued  races  of  Southern  Europe  and  their 
descendants  are  liable  to.  He  lay  in  his  bed, 
sometimes  arranging  plans  to  meet  the  various 
difficulties  already  mentioned,  sometimes  getting 
tnto  a  paroxysm  of  blind  rage  in  the  perplexity 


416 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


of  considering  what  object  he  should  select  as  the 
one  most  clearly  in  his  way.  On  the  whole 
there  could  be  no  doubt  where  the  most  threat¬ 
ening  of  all  his  embarrassments  lay.  It  was  ir 
the  probable  growing  relation  between  Elsie  and 
the  school-master.  If  it  should  prove,  as  it  seemed 
likely,  that  there  was  springing  up  a  serious  at¬ 
tachment  tending  to  a  union  between  them,  he 
knew  what  he  should  do,  if  he  was  not  quite  so 
sure  how  he  should  do  it. 

There  was  one  thing  at  least  which  might 
favor  his  projects,  and  which,  at  any  rate,  would 
serve  to  amuse  him.  He  could,  by  a  little  quiet 
observation,  find  out  what  were  the  school-mas¬ 
ter’s  habits  of  life  :  whether  he  had  any  routine 
which  could  be  calculated  upon  ;  and  under  what 
circumstances  a  strictly  private  interview  of  a 
few  minutes  with  him  might  be  reckoned  on,  in 
case  it  should  be  desirable.  He  could  also  very 
probably  learn  some  facts  about  Elsie :  whether 
the  young  man  was  in  the  habit  of  attending  her 
on  her  way  home  from  school ;  whether  she 
stayed  about  the  school-room  after  the  other  girls 
had  gone  ;  and  any  incidental  matters  of  interest 
which  might  present  themselves. 

He  was  getting  more  and  more  restless  for 
want  of  some  excitement.  A  mad  gallop,  a  visit 
to  Mrs.  Blanche  Creamer,  who  had  taken  such 
a  fancy  to  him,  or  a  chat  with  the  Widow  Row^ 
ens,  who  was  very  lively  in  her  talk,  for  all  hei 
sombre  colors,  and  reminded  him  a  good  deal  of 


ELSIE  VENNER.  417 

some  of  his  earlier  friends,  the  senoritas ,  —  all 
these  were  distractions,  to  be  sure,  but  not^enough 
to  keep  his  fiery  spirit  from  fretting  itself  in  long¬ 
ings  for  more  dangerous  excitements.  The  thought 
of  getting  a  knowledge  of  all  Mr.  Bernard’s  ways, 
fco  that  he  would  be  in  his  power  at  any  moment, 
was  a  happy  one. 

For  some  days  after  this  he  followed  Elsie  at  a 
long  distance  behind,  to  watch  her  until  she  got 
to  the  school-house.  One  day  he  saw  Mr.  Ber¬ 
nard  join  her:  a  mere  accident,  very  probably, 
for  it  was  only  once  this  happened.  She  came 
on  her  homeward  way  alone,  —  quite  apart  from 
the  groups  of  girls  who  strolled  out  of  the  school- 
house  yard  in  company.  Sometimes  she  was  be¬ 
hind  them  all,  —  which  was  suggestive.  Could 
she  have  stayed  to  meet  the  school-master  ? 

If  he  could  have  smuggled  himself  into  the 
school,  he  would  have  liked  to  watch  her  there, 
and  see  if  there  was  not  some  understanding 
between  her  and  the  master  which  betrayed  itself 
by  look  or  word.  But  this  wras  beyond  the  limit* 
of  his  audacity,  and  he  had  to  content  himself 
with  such  cautious  observations  as  could  be  made 
at  a  distance.  With  the  aid  of  a  pocket-glass  he 
could  make  out  persons  with  :>ut  the  risk  of  being 
observed  himself. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckliam’s  corps  of  instructors  was 
not  expected  to  be  off  duty  or  to  stand  at  ease 
?or  any  considerable  length  of  time.  Sometimes 
Mr.  Bernard,  who  had  more  freedom  than  the 

27 


418 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


rest,  would  go  out  for  a  ramble  in  the  daytime 
but  more  frequently  it  would  be  in  the  evening 
after  the  hour  of  “  retiring,”  as  bedtime  was  ele* 
gantly  termed  by  the  young  ladies  of  the  Apol- 
linean  Institute.  He  would  then  not  unfrequentljf 
walk  out  alone  in  the  common  roads,  or  climb  up 
the  sides  of  The  Mountain,  which  seemed  to  be 
one  of  his  favorite  resorts.  Here,  of  course,  it 
was  impossible  to  follow  him  with  the  eye  at  a 
distance.  Dick  had  a  hideous,  gnawing  suspicion 
that  somewhere  in  these  deep  shades  the  school¬ 
master  might  meet  Elsie,  whose  evening  wander¬ 
ings  he  knew  so  well.  But  of  this  he  was  not 
able  to  assure  himself.  Secrecy  was  necessary  to 
his  present  plans,  and  he  could  not  compromise 
himself  by  over-eager  curiosity.  One  thing  he 
learned  with  certainty.  The  master  returned, 
after  his  walk  one  evening,  and  entered  the  build¬ 
ing  where  his  room  was  situated.  Presently  a 
light  betrayed  the  window  of  his  apartment. 
From  a  wooded  bank,  some  thirty  or  forty  rods 
from  this  building,  Dick  Venner  could  see  the 
interior  of  the  chamber,  and  watch  the  master 
as  he  sat  at  his  desk,  the  light  falling  strongly 
upon  his  face,  intent  upon  the  book  or  manuscript 
before  him.  Dick  contemplated  him  very  long  in 
this  attitude.  The  sense  of  watching  his  every 
motion,  himself  meanwhile  utterly  unseen,  was 
delicious.  How  little  the  master  was  thinking 
vhat  eyes  were  on  him ! 

Well,  —  there  were  two  things  quite  certain 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


41  a 

One  was,  that,  if  he  chose,  he  could  meet  the 
school-master  alone,  either  in  the  road/ or  in  a 
more  solitary  place,  if  he  preferred  to  watch  his  - 
chance  for  an  evening  or  two.  The  other  was, 
that  he  commanded  his  position,  as  he  sat  at  his 
desk  in  the  evening,  in  such  a  way  that  there 
would  be  very  little  difficulty,  —  so  far  as  that 
went ;  of  course,  however,  silence  is  always  pref¬ 
erable  to  noise,  and  there  is  a  great  difference  in 
the  marks  left  by  different  casualties.  Very  likely 
nothing  would  come  of  all  this  espionage ;  but, 
at  any  rate,  the  first  thing  to  be  done  with  a  man 
you  want  to  have  in  your  power  is  to  learn  his 
habits. 

Since  the  tea-party  at  the  Widow  Rowens’s, 
Elsie  had  been  more  fitful  and  moody  than  ever. 
Dick  understood  all  this  well  enough,  you  know. 

It  was  the  working  of  her  jealousy  against  that 
young  school-girl  to  whom  the  master  had  de¬ 
voted  himself  for  the  sake  of  piquing  the  heiress 
of  the  Dudley  mansion.  Was  it  possible,  in  any 
way,  to  exasperate  her  irritable  nature  against 
him,  and  in  this  way  to  render  her  more  accessi¬ 
ble  to  his  own  advances  ?  It  was  difficult  to  in¬ 
fluence  her  at  all.  She  endured  his  company 
without  seeming  to  enjoy  it.  She  watched  him 
with  that  strange  look  of  hers,  sometimes  as  if 
she  were  on  her  guard  against  him,  sometimes  as 
if  she  would  like  to  strike  at  him  as  in  that  fit  of 
childish  passion.  She  ordered  him  about  with  a 
oaughty  indifference  which  reminded  him  of  hia 


120 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


own  way  with  the  dark-eyed  women  whom  he 
had  known  so  well  of  old.  All  this  added  a  secret 
pleasure  to  the  other  motives  he  had  for  worry¬ 
ing  her  with  jealous  suspicions.  He  knew  she 
brooded  silently  on  any  grief  thai  poisoned  her 
comfort,  —  that  she  fed  on  it,  as  it  were,  until  it 
ran  with  every  drop  of  blood  in  her  veins,  —  and 
that,  except  in  some  paroxysm  of  rage,  of  which 
he  himself  was  not  likely  the  second  time  to  be 
the  object,  or  in  some  deadly  vengeance  wrought 
secretly,  against  which  he  would  keep  a  sharp 
lookout,  so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  she  had 
no  outlet  for  her  dangerous,  smouldering  pas¬ 
sions. 

Beware  of  the  woman  who  cannot  find  free 
utterance  for  all  her  stormy  inner  life  either  in 
words  or  song !  So  long  as  a  woman  can  talk, 
there  is  nothing  she  cannot  bear.  If  she  cannot 
have  a  companion  to  listen  to  her  woes,  and  has 
no  musical  utterance,  vocal  or  instrumental, — 
then,  if  she  is  of  the  real  woman  sort,  and  has 
a  few  heartfuls  of  wild  blood  in  her,  and  you 
have  done  her  a  wrong,  —  double-bolt  the  dooi 
which  she  may  enter  on  noiseless  slipper  at  mid¬ 
night, —  look  twice  before  you  taste  of  any  cup 
whose  draught  the  shadow  of  her  hand  may 
have  darkened  ! 

But  let  her  talk,  and,  above  all,  cry,  or,  if  she 
’.s  one  of  the  coarser-grained  tribe,  give  her  the 
run  of  all  the  red-hot  expletives  in  the  language 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


421 


and  let  her  blister  her  lips  with  them  until  >he  is 
tired,  she  will  sleep  like  a  lamb  after  it,  and  you 
may  take  a  cup  of  coffee  from  her  without  stirring 
it  up  to  look  for  its  sediment. 

So,  if  she  can  sing,  or  play  on  any  musical  in* 
strument,  all  her  wickedness  will  run  off  through 
her  throat  or  the  tips  of  her  fingers.  How  many 
tragedies  find  their  peaceful  catastrophe  in  fierce 
roulades  and  strenuous  bravuras !  How  many 
murders  are  executed  in  double-quick  time  upon 
the  keys  which  stab  the  air  with  their  dagger- 
strokes  of  sound  !  What  would  our  civilization 
be  without  the  piano  ?  Are  not  Erard  and  Broad- 
wood  and  Chickering  the  true  humanizers  of  our 
time  ?  Therefore  do  I  love  to  hear  the  all-per¬ 
vading  turn  turn  jarring  the  walls  of  little  parlors 
in  houses  with  double  door-plates  on  their  portals, 
looking  out  on  streets  and  courts  which  to  know 
is  to  be  unknown,  and  where  to  exist  is  not  to 
live,  according  to  any  true  definition  of  living 
Therefore  complain  I  not  of  modern  degeneracy, 
when,  even  from  the  open  window  of  the  small 
unlovely  farm-house,  tenanted  by  the  hard-handed 
man  of  bovine  flavors  and  the  flat-patterned  wom¬ 
an  of  broken-down  countenance,  issue  the  same 
familiar  sounds.  For  who  knows  that  Almira, 
but  for  these  keys,  which  throb  away  her  wild 
impulses  in  harmless  discords,  would  not  have 
been  floating,  dead,  in  the  brown  stream  which 
elides  through  the  meadows  by  her  father’s  door, 
—  or  living,  with  that  other  current  which  runs 


422 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


beneath  the  gas-iights  over  the  slimy  pavement, 
choking  with  wretched  weeds  that  were  once  in 
spotless  flower? 

Poor  Elsie !  She  never  sang  nor  played.  She 
never  shaped  her  inner  life  in  words  :  such  utter¬ 
ance  was  as  much  denied  to  her  nature  as  com¬ 
mon  articulate  speech  to  the  deaf  mute.  Her 
only  language  must  be  in  action.  Watch  her 
well  by  day  and  by  night,  Old  Sophy !  watch  her 
well !  or  the  long  line  of  her  honored  name  may 
close  in  shame,  and  the  stately  mansion  of  the 
Dudleys  remain  a  hissing  and  a  reproach  till  its 
roof  is  buried  in  its  cellar! 


ELSIE  VENyEE 


423 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

ON  HIS  TRACKS. 

“  Abel  !  ”  said  the  old  Doctor,  one  morning, 
‘after  you’ve  harnessed  Caustic,  come  into  the 
study  a  few  minutes,  will  you  ?  ” 

Abel  nodded.  He  was  a  man  of  few  words, 
and  he  knew  that  the  “  will  you  ”  did  not  require 
an  answer,  being  the  true  New-England  way  of 
rounding  the  corners  of  an  employer’s  order,  —  a 
tribute  to  the  personal  independence  of  an  Amer¬ 
ican  citizen. 

The  hired  man  came  into  the  study  in  the 
course  of  a  few  minutes.  His  face  was  perfectly 
still,  and  he  waited  to  be  spoken  to ;  but  the 
Doctor’s  eye  detected  a  certain  meaning  in  his 
expression,  which  looked  as  if  he  had  some' 
thing  to  communicate. 

“  Well?  ”  said  the  Doctor 

“  He’s  up  to  mischief  o’  some  kind,  I  guess/' 
said  Abel.  “  I  jest  happened  daown  by  the  man- 
Mon-haouse  last  night,  ’n’  he  come  aout  o’  the  gate 
on  that  queer-lookin’  creatur’  o  his.  I  watched 
him,  ’n’  he  rid,  very  slow,  all  raoun*  by  the  Insti- 
oot,  ’n’  acted  as  ef  he  was  spyin'  abaout.  He 


424 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


looks  to  me  like  a  man  that’s  calc’latin’  to  do 
Borne  kind  of  ill-turn  to  somebody.  I  shouldn’t 
like  to  have  him  raoun’  me,  ’f  there  wa’n’t  a 
pitchfork  or  an  eel-spear  or  some  sech  weep’n 
within  reach.  He  may  be  all  right ;  but  1  don't 
like  his  looks,  ’n’  I  don’t  see  what  lie’s  lurkin 
raoun’  the  Institoot  for,  after  folks  is  abed.55 

“  Have  you  watched  him  pretty  close  for  th© 
last  few  days  ?  ”  said  the  Doctor. 

“  W’il,  yes,  —  I’ve  had  my  eye  on  him  consid’- 
ble  o’  the  time.  I  haf  to  be  pooty  shy  abaout  it* 
or  he’ll  find  aout  th’t  I’m  on  his  tracks.  I  don’ 
want  him  to  get  a  spite  ag’inst  me,  ’f  I  c’n  help  it, 
he  looks  to  me  like  one  o’  them  kind  that  kerriea 
what  they  call  slung-shot,  ’n’  hits  ye  on  the  side 
o’  rh’  head  with  ’em  so  suddin  y’  never  know 
what  hurts  ye.” 

u  Why,”  said  the  Doctor,  sharply,  —  “have  you 
ever  seen  him  with  any  such  weapon  about 
him  ?  ” 

“  W’ll,  no,  —  I  caan’t  say  that  I  hev,”  Abel 
answered.  “  On’y  he  looks  kin’  o’  dangerous. 
Maybe  lie’s  all  jest  ’z  he  ought  to  be,  —  I  caan’t 
say  that  he  a’n’t,  —  but  he’s  aout  late  nights,  ’n’ 
lurkin’  raoun’  jest  ’z  ef  he  wus  spyin’  somebody, 
hi’  somehaow  I  caan’t  help  mistrustin’  them  Port- 
agee-lookin’  fellahs.  I  caan’t  keep  the  run  o’ 
this  chap  all  the  time ;  but  I’ve  a  notion  that  old 
black  woman  daown ’t  the  mansion-haouse  knows 

much  abaout  him  ’z  anybody.” 

The  Doctor  paused  a  moment,  after  hearing 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


425 


this  report  from  his  private  detective,  and  then 
got  into  his  chaise,  and  turned  Caustic’s  head  in 
the  direction  of  the  Dudley  mansion.  He  had 
been  suspicious  of  Dick  from  the  first.  He  did 
not  like  his  mixed  blood,  nor  his  looks,  nor  his 
ways.  He  had  formed  a  conjecture  about  hi3 
projects  early.  He  had  made  a  shrewd  guess  as 
to  the  probable  jealousy  Dick  would  feel  of  the 
Bchool-m aster,  had  found  out  something  of  his 
movements,  and  had  cautioned  Mr.  Bernard, — • 
as  we  have  seen.  He  felt  an  interest  in  the  young 
man,  —  a  student  of  his  own  profession,  an  intel¬ 
ligent  and  ingenuously  unsuspecting  young  fel¬ 
low,  who  had  been  thrown  by  accident  into  the 
companionship  or  the  neighborhood  of  two  per¬ 
sons,  one  of  whom  he  knew  to  be  dangerous,  and 
the  other  he  believed  instinctively  might  be  capa¬ 
ble  of  crime. 

The  Doctor  rode  down  to  the  Dudley  mansion 
solely  for  the  sake  of  seeing  Old  Sophy.  He  was 
lucky  enough  to  find  her  alone  in  her  kitchen. 
He  began  talking  with  her  as  a  physician ;  he 
wanted  to  know  how  her  rheumatism  had  been. 
The  shrewd  old  woman  saw  through  all  that  with 
her  little  beady  black  eyes.  It  was  something 
quite  different  he  had  come  for,  and  Old  Soph\ 
answered  very  briefly  fcr  her  aches  and  ails. 

“  Old  folks’  bones  a’n’t  like  young  folks’,”  she 
said.  u  It’s  the  Lord’s  doin’s,  ’n’  ’t  a’n’t  much 
matter.  I  sha’n  be  long  roun’  this  kitchen.  It’s 
the  young  Missis,  Doctor,  —  it’s  our  Elsie,  —  it’s 


*26 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  baby,  as  we  use’ t’  call  her, — don’  you  lemem* 
ber,  Doctor  ?  Seventeen  year  ago,  ’n’  her  poof 
mother  cryin’  for  her,  —  ‘  Where  is  she?  where  is 
she  ?  Let  me  see  her !  ’  —  ’n’  how  I  run  up-stairs, 
- —  I  could  run  then,  —  ’n’  got  the  coral  necklace 
’n’  put  it  round  her  little  neck,  ’n’  then  showed 
her  to  her  mother,  —  ’n’  how  her  mother  looked  at 
her,  ’n’  looked,  ’n’  then  put  out  her  poor  thin  fin* 
gers  ’n’  lifted  the  necklace,  —  ’n’  fell  right  back  oil 
her  piller,  as  white  as  though  she  was  laid  out  to 
bury  ?  ” 

The  Doctor  answered  her  by  silence  and  a  look 
of  grave  assent.  He  had  never  chosen  to  let  Old 
Sophy  dwell  upon  these  matters,  for  obvious  rea¬ 
sons.  The  girl  must  not  grow  up  haunted  by 
perpetual  fears  and  prophecies,  if  it  were  possible 
to  prevent  it. 

“  Well,  how  has  Elsie  seemed  of  late  ?”  he  said, 
after  this  brief  pause. 

The  old  woman  shook  her  head.  Then  she 
looked  up  at  the  Doctor  so  steadily  and  search- 
iiigly  that  the  diamond  eyes  of  Elsie  herself  could 
hardly  have  pierced  more  deeply. 

The  Doctor  raised  his  head,  by  his  habitual 
movement,  and  met  the  old  woman’s  look  with 
his  own  calm  and  scrutinizing  gaze,  sharpened  by 
the  glasses  through  which  he  now  saw  her. 

Sophy  spoke  presently  in  an  awed  tone,  as  i / 
telling  a  vision. 

“  We  shall  be  havin’  trouble  before  long 
The’  ’s  somethin’  cornin’  from  the  Lord.  l’v« 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


427 


Had  dreams,  Doctor.  It’s  many  a  year  Pye 
been  a-dreamin’,  but  now  they’re  cornin’  over  ?n’ 
over  the  same  thing.  Three  times  I’ve  dreamed 
one  thing,  Doctor,  —  one  thing!” 

“  And  what  was  that  ?  ”  the  Doctor  said,  with 
that  shade  of  curiosity  in  his  tone  which  a  meta¬ 
physician  would  probably  say  is  an  index  of  a 
certain  tendency  to  belief  in  the  superstition  to 
which  the  question  refers. 

“  I  ca’n’  jestly  tell  y’  what  it  was,  Doctor,”  the 
old  woman  answered,  as  if  bewildered  and  trying 
to  clear  up  her  recollections ;  “  but  it  was  some¬ 
thin’  fearful,  with  a  great  noise  ’n’  a  great  cryin’ 
o’  people,  —  like  the  Las’  Day,  Doctor !  The 
Lord  have  mercy  on  my  poor  chil’,  ’n’  take  care 
of  her,  if  anything  happens !  But  I’s  feared 
she’ll  never  live  to  see  the  Las’  Day,  ’f ’t  don’ 
come  pooty  quick.” 

•  Poor  Sophy,  only  the  third  generation  from 
cannibalism,  was,  not  unnaturally,  somewhat  con¬ 
fused  in  her  theological  notions.  Some  of  the 
Second- Advent  preachers  had  been  about,  and 
circulated  their  predictions  among  the  kitchen- 
population  of  Rockland.  This  was  the  way  in 
which  it  happened  that  she  mingled  her  fears  in 
such  a  strange  manner  with  their  doctrines. 

The  Doctor  answered  solemnly,  that  of  the  day 
and  hour  we  knew  not,  iut  it  became  us  to  be 
always  ready.  —  “Is  there  anything  going  on  in 
the  household  different  from  common  ?  n 

Old  Sophy’s  wrinkled  fa^e  looked  as  full  o * 


•XSIE  TENNER. 


il'O 


life  and  intelligence,  when  she  turned  it  full  upon 
the  Doctor,  as  if  she  had  slipped  off  her  infirmities 
and  years  like  an  outer  garment.  All  those  line 
instincts  of  observation  which  came  straight  to 
her  from  her  savage  grandfather  looked  out  of  her 

little  eyes.  She  had  a  kind  of  faith  thar  the  Doo 

* 

tor  was  a  mighty  conjurer,  who,  if  he  would, 
could  bewitch  any  of  them.  She  had  relieved 
her  feelings  by  her  long  talk  with  the  minister, 
but  the  Doctor  was  the  immediate  adviser  of  the 
familv,  and  had  watched  them  through  all  their 
troubles.  Perhaps  he  could  tell  them  what  to  do. 
She  had  but  one  real  object  of  affection  in  the 
world. — this  child  that  she  had  tended  from  in¬ 
fancy  to  womanhood.  Troubles  were  gathering 
thick  round  her  ;  how  soon  they  would  break 
upon  her,  and  blight  or  destroy  her.  no  one  could 
tell;  but  there  was  nothing  in  all  the  catalogue 
of  terrors  which  might  not  come  upon  the  house¬ 
hold  at  any  moment  Her  own  wits  had  sharp¬ 
ened  themselves  in  keeping  watch  by  day  and 
night,  and  her  face  had  forgotten  its  age  in  the 
excitement  which  gave  life  to  its  features. 

“  Doctor/’  Old  Sophy  said.  u  there’s  strange 
things  goin’  on  here  by  night  and  by  day.  I  don’ 
like  that  man,  —  that  Dick,  —  I  never  liked  him. 
He  giv’  me  some  o’  these  things  I’  got  on ;  I  take 
’em  ’cos  I  know  it  make  him  mad,  if  I  no  take 
em ;  I  wear  ’em,  so  that  he  needn’  feel  as  if  1 
didu’  like  him  ;  but,  Doctor,  I  hate  him, — jes’  as 
much  as  a  member  o’  the  church  has  the  Lord  i 
leave  to  hate  anybody.” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


429 


Her  eyes  sparkled  with  the  old  savage  light,  as 
if  her  ill-will  to  Mr.  Richard  Venner  might  per¬ 
haps  go  a  little  farther  than  the  Christian  limit 
she  had  assigned.  Bat  remember  that  her  grand¬ 
father  was  in  the  habit  of  inviting  his  friends  to 
dine  with  him  upon  the  last  enemy  he  had  bagged, 
and  that  her  grandmother’s  teeth  were  filed  down 
io  points,  so  that  they  were  as  sharp  as  a  shark’s. 

“  What  is  that  you  have  seen  about  Mr.  Richard 
Venner  that  gives  you  such  a  spite  against  him, 
Sophy  ?  ”  asked  the  Doctor. 

“  What  I’  seen  ’bout  Dick  Venner?”  she  replied, 
fiercely.  “  I’ll  tell  y’  what  I’  seen.  Dick  wan’s 
to  marry  our  Elsie,  —  that’s  what  he  wan’s ;  ’n’ 
he  don’  love  her,  Doctor, — he  hates  her,  Doctor, 
as  Rad  as  I  hate  him !  He  wan’s  to  marry  our 
Elsie,  hi’  live  here  in  the  big  house,  ’n’  have  nothin’ 
to  do  but  jes’  lay  still  ’n’  watch  Massa  Venner  ’n’ 
see  how  long  ’t  ’ll  take  him  to  die,  ’n’  ’f  he  don* 
die  fas’  ’nufF,  help  him  some  way  t’  die  fasser!  — 
Come  close  up  t’  me,  Doctor  !  I  wan’  t’  tell  you 
somethin’  I  tol’  th’  minister  t’other  day.  Th’  min¬ 
ister,  he  come  down  ’n’  prayed  ’n’  talked  good,  — 
he’s  a  good  man,  that  Doctor  Honey  wood,  ’n’  I 
tol’  him  all  ’bout  our  Elsie, —  but  he  didn’  tell  no¬ 
body  what  to  do  to  stop  all  what  I  been  dreamin’ 
about  happenin’.  Come  close  up  to  me,  Doctor!  ” 

The  Doctor  drew  his  chair  close  up  to  that  of 
the  old  woman. 

“  Doctor,  nobody  mus’n  never  marry  our  Elsie ’s 
tmig ’s  she  lives  !  Nobody  mus’n’  never  live  with 


430 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Elsie  but  OP  Sophy ;  ’n’  OP  Sophy  won’t  nevei 
die  ?s  long ’s  Elsie  ’s  alive  to  be  took  care  of.  But 
I’s  feared.  Doctor,  Fs  greatly  feared  Elsie  wan’  to 
marry  somebody.  The’  ’s  a  young  gen’l’m’n  up  at 
that  school  where  she  go,  —  so  some  of  ’em  tells 
me,  —  ’n’  she  loves  t’  see  him  ’n’  talk  wi’  him,  ’n’ 
she  talks  about  him  when  she’s  asleep  sometimes. 
She  mus’n’  never  marry  nobody,  Doctor !  If  she 
do,  he  die,  certain  !  ” 

u  If  she  has  a  fancy  for  the  young  man  up  at 
the  school  there,”  the  Doctor  said,  “  I  shouldn’t 
think  there  would  be  much  danger  from  Dick.” 

“  Doctor,  nobody  know  nothin’  ’bout  Elsie  but 
OP  Sophy.  She  no  like  any  other  creatur’  th’t 
ever  drawed  the  bref  o’  life.  If  she  ca’n’  marry 
one  man  ’cos  she  love  him,  she  marry  another  man 
’cos  she  hate  him.” 

Marry  a  man  because  she  hates  him,  Sophy  ? 
No  woman  ever  did  such  a  thing  as  that,  or  ever 
will  do  it.” 

“  Who  tol’  you  Elsie  was  a  woman,  Doctor  ? 
said  Old  Sophy,  with  a  flash  of  strange  intelli 
gence  in  her  eyes. 

The  Doctor’s  face  showed  that  he  was  startled. 
The  old  woman  could  not  know  much  about 
Elsie  that  he  did  not  know ;  but  what  strange  su¬ 
perstition  had  got  into  her  head,  he  was  puzzled 
to  guess.  He  had  better  follow  Sophy’s  lead  and 
find  out  what  she  meant. 

u  I  should  call  Elsie  a  woman,  and  a  very  hand 
*ornc  one,”  he  said.  “  You  don’t  mean  that  sht 


ELSIE  VEHNER 


431 


nas  any  mark  about  her,  except — you  know  — 
tinder  the  necklace?  ’’ 

The  old  woman  resented  the  thought  of  any  de¬ 
formity  about  her  darling. 

“I  didn’  say  she  had  nothin’ — but  jes’  that  — 
you  know.  My  beauty  have  anything  ugly? 
She’s  the  beautifullest-shaped  lady  that  ever  had 
a  shinin’  silk  gown  drawed  over  her  shoulders. 
On’y  she  a’n’t  like  no  other  woman  in  none  of  her 
ways.  She  don’t  cry  ’n’  laugh  like  other  women. 
An’  she  ha’n’  got  the  same  kind  o’  feelin’s  as  other 
women.  —  Do  you  know  that  young  gen’l’m’n  up 
at  the  school,  Doctor  ?  ” 

“Yes,  Sophy,  I’ve  met  him  sometimes.  He’s 
a  very  nice  sort  of  young  man,  handsome,  too, 
and  I  don’t  much  wonder  Elsie  takes  to  him. 
Tell  me,  Sophy,  what  do  you  think  would  hap¬ 
pen,  if  he  should  chance  to  fall  in  love  with  Elsie, 
and  she  with  him,  and  he  should  marry  her  ?  ” 

“  Put  your  ear  close  to  my  lips,  Doctor,  dear!  ” 
She  whispered  a  little  to  the  Doctor,  then  added 
aloud,  “  He  die,  —  that’s  all.” 

“  But  surely,  Sophy,  you  a’n’t  afraid  to  have 
Dick  marry  her,  if  she  would  have  him  for  any 
reason,  are  you  ?  He  can  take  care  of  himself,  if 
anybody  can.” 

“  Doctor  !  ”  Sophy  answered,  “  nobody  can  take 
care  of  hisself  that  live  wi’  Elsie  .  Nobody  never 
In  all  this  worl’  mus’  live  wi’  Elsie  but  Ol’  Sophy 
I  tell  you.  You  don’  think  I  care  for  Dick  ? 
What  do  I  care,  if  Dick  Venner  die  ?  He  wan’# 


132 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


to  marry  our  Elsie  so  ’s  to  live  in  the  big  house 
’n’  get  all  the  money  ’n’  all  the  silver  things  ’n’ 
all  the  chists  full  o’  linen  ’n’  beautiful  clothes ! 
That’s  what  Dick  wan’s.  An’  he  hates  Elsie  ’ces 
she  don’  like  him.  But  if  he  marry  Elsie,  she’ll 
make  him  die  some  wrong  way  or  other,  ’n’  they’ll 
take  her  ’n’  hang  her,  or  he’ll  get  mad  with  her 
’n’  choke  her.  —  Oh,  I  know  his  chokin’  tricks !  — 
he  don’  leave  his  keys  roun’  for  nothin’ !  ” 

u  What’s  that  you  say,  Sophy  ?  Tell  me  what 
you  mean  by  all  that.” 

So  poor  Sophy  had  to  explain  certain  facts  not 
in  all  respects  to  her  credit.  She  had  taken  the 
opportunity  of  his  absence  to  look  about  his  cham¬ 
ber,  and,  having  found  a  key  in  one  of  his  draw¬ 
ers,  had  applied  it  to  a  trunk,  and,  finding  that  it 
opened  the  trunk,  had  made  a  kind  of  inspection 
for  contraband  articles,  and,  seeing  the  end  of  a 
leather  thong,  had  followed  it  up  until  she  saw 
that  it  finished  with  a  noose,  which,  from  certain 
appearances,  she  inferred  to  have  seen  service  of 
at  least  doubtful  nature.  An  unauthorized  search ; 
but  Old  Sophy  considered  that  a  game  of  life  and 
death  was  going  on  in  the  household,  and  that  she 
was  bound  to  look  out  for  her  darling. 

The  Doctor  paused  a  moment  to  think  over  this 
odd  piece  of  information.  Without  sharing  So¬ 
phy’s  belief  as  to  the  kind  of  use  this  mischievous- 
looking  piece  of  property  had  been  put  to,  it  waa 
certainly  very  odd  that  Dick  should  have  such  9 
thing  at  the  bottom  of  his  trunk.  The  Doctor  ro 


r  ELSIE  VENNER. 


433 


rnembered  reading  or  hearing  something  about 
the  lasso  and  the  lariat  and  the  bolas ,  and  had  an 
indistinct  idea  that  they  had  been  sometimes  used 
as  weapons  of  warfare  or  private  revenge ;  but 
they  were  essentially  a  huntsman’s  implements, 
after  all,  and  it  was  not  very  strange  that  this 
young  man  had  brought  one  of  them  with  him. 
Not  strange,  perhaps,  but  worth  noting. 

u  Do  you  really  think  Dick  means  mischief  to 
anybody,  that  he  has  such  dangerous-looking 
things  ?  ”  the  Doctor  said,  presently. 

“  I  tell  you,  Doctor.  Dick  means  to  have  Elsie. 
If  he  ea’n’  get  her,  he  never  let  nobody  else  have 
her.  Oh,  Dick’s  a  dark  man,  Doctor !  I  know 
him  !  I  ’member  him  when  he  was  little  boy,  — 
he  always  cunnin’.  I  think  he  mean  mischief  to 
somebody.  He  come  home  late  nights,  —  come 
in  softly,  —  oh,  I  hear  him  !  I  lay  awake,  ’n’  got 
sharp  ears,  —  I  hear  the  cats  walkin’  over  the 
roofs,  —  ’n’  I  hear  Dick  Yenner,  when  he  comes 
up  in  his  stockin’-feet  as  still  as  a  cat.  I  think 
he  mean  mischief  to  somebody  I  no  like  his 
looks  these  las’  days.  —  Is  that  a  very  pooty 
gen’l’m’n  up  at  the  school-house,  Doctor  ?  ” 

“  I  told  you  he  was  good-looking.  What  if  he 
f(s?” 

u  I  should  like  to  see  him,  Doctor,  —  I  should 
tike  to  see  the  pooty  gen’l’m’n  that  my  poor  Elsie 
4oves.  She  mus’n’  never  marry  nobody,  —  but, 
oh,  Doctor,  I  should  like  to  see  him,  ’n’  jes'  thin1? 
a  little  how  it  would  ha’  been,  if  the  Lorri  3  ck 
been  so  hard  on  Elsie  ” 


4 


434 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


She  wept  and  wrung  her  hands.  The  kind 
Doctor  was  touched,  and  left  her  a  moment  to  hei 
thoughts. 

“  And  how  does  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  take  ah 
this  ?  ”  he  said,  by  way  of  changing  the  subject  a 
little 

“  Oh,  Massa  Venner,  he  good  man,  but  he  don* 
know  nothin’  ’bout  Elsie,  as  Ol’  Sophy  do.  1 
keep  close  by  her ;  I  help  her  when  she  go  to  bed, 
’n’  set  by  her  sometime  when  she  ’sleep  ;  I  come 
to  her  in  th’  mornin’  ’n’  help  her  put  on  her 
things.”  —  Then,  in  a  whisper,  —  “  Doctor,  Elsie 
lets  Ol’  Sophy  take  off  that  necklace  for  her, 
What  you  think  she  do,  ’f  anybody  else  tech 
it?” 

“  I  don’t  know,  I’m  sure,  Sophy,  —  strike  the 
person,  perhaps.” 

“  Oh,  yes,  strike  ’em !  but  not  with  her  han’s, 
Doctor  !  ”  —  The  old  woman’s  significant  panto¬ 
mime  must  be  guessed  at. 

“  But  you  haven’t  told  me,  Sophy,  what  Mr. 
Dudley  Venner  thinks  of  his  nephew,  nor  wheth* 
er  he  has  any  notion  that  Dick  wants  to  marry 
Elsie.” 

“  I  tell  you.  Massa  Venner,  he  good  man,  but 
he  no  see  nothin’  ’bout  what  goes  on  here  in  the 
house.  He  sort  o’  broken-hearted,  you  know, — 
Bort  o’  giv’  up,  —  don’  know  what  to  do  wi’  Elsie 
Ixcep’  say  i  Yes,  yes.’  Dick  always  look  smilin 
’n’  behave  well  before  him.  One  time  I  thought 
Massa  Venner  b’lievc  Dick  was  goin’  to  take  tc 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


435 


Elsie ;  but  now  he  don*  seem  to  take  much  notide  - 
■ — he  kin’  o’  stupid-like  ’bout  seeh  things.  It’s 
trouble,  Doctor;  ’cos  Massa  Venner  bright  man 
naterqjly, —  ’n’  he’s  got  a  great  heap  o’  books.  I 
don’  think  Massa  Venner  never  been  jes’  heself 
genee  Elsie’s  born.  He  done  all  he  know  how, — 
but,  Doctor,  that  wa’n’  a  great  deal.  You  men- 
folks  don’  know  nothin’  ’bout  these  young  gals  ; 
’n’  ’f  you  knowed  all  the  young  gals  that  ever 
lived,  y’  wouldn’  know  nothin’  ’bout  our  Elsie.” 

u  No,  —  but,  Sophy,  what  I  want  to  know  is, 
whether  you  think  Mr.  Venner  has  any  kind  of 
suspicion  about  his  nephew,  —  whether  he  has 
any  notion  that  he’s  a  dangerous  sort  of  fellow, 
• —  or  whether  he  feels  safe  to  have  him  about, 
or  has  even  taken  a  sort  of  fancy  to  him.” 

“  Lor’  bless  you,  Doctor,  Massa  Venner  no 
more  idee  ’f  any  mischief  ’bout  Dick  than  he 
has  ’bout  you  or  me.  Y’  see,  he  very  fond  o’ 
the  Cap’n,  —  that  Dick’s  father,  —  ’n’  he  live  so 
long  alone  here,  ’long  wi’  us,  that  he  kin’  o’  like 
to  see  mos’  anybody ’t ’s  got  any  o’  th’  ol’  family- 
fclood  in  ’em.  He  ha’n’t  got  no  more  suspicions 
hi  a  baby,  —  y’  never  see  secli  a  man  ’n  y’r  life. 
I  kin’  o’  think  he  don’  care  for  nothin’  in  this 
world  ’xcep’  jes’  t’  do  what  Elsie  wan’s  him  to. 
The  fus’  year  after  young  Madam  die  he  do 
nothin’  but  jes’  set  at  the  window  ’n’  look  out 
at  her  grave,  ’n’  then  come  up  ’n’  look  at  the 
baby’s  neck  ’n’  say,  1  It's  fadin',  Sophy ,  a' n't  it ?  ’ 
n’  then  go  down  in  the  stud\  ’n’  walk  ’n’  walk,  ’n’ 


136 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


then  kneel  down  ’n’  pray.  Doctor,  there  was  two 
places  in  the  old  carpet  that  was  all  threadbare, 
where  his  knees  had  worn  ’em.  An’  sometimes, 
—  you  remember  ’bout  ail  that,  —  he’d  go  off  up 
into  The  Mountain,  ’n’  be  gone  all  day,  ’n;  kill  all 
the  Ugly  Things  he  could  find  up  there.  —  Oh, 
Doctor,  I  don’  like  to  think  o’  them  days!  — 
An’  by-’n’-by  he  grew  kin’  o’  still,  ’n’  begun  to 
read  a  little,  ’n’  ’t  las’  he  got ’s  quiet ’s  a  lamb, 
’n’  that’s  the  way  he  is  now.  I  think  he’s  got 
religion,  Doctor;  but  he  a’n’t  so  bright  about 
what’s  goin’  on,  ’n’  I  don’  believe  he  never 
suspec’  nothin’  till  somethin’  happens;  —  for  the’  ’s 
somethin’  goin’  to  happen,  Doctor,  if  the  Las’ 
Day  doesn’  come  to  stop  it ;  ’n’  you  mus’  tell  us 
what  to  do,  ’n’  save  my  poor  Elsie,  my  baby  that 
the  Lord  hasn’  took  care  of  like  all  his  other 
childer.” 

The  Doctor  assured  the  old  woman  that  he 
was  thinking  a  great  deal  about  them  all,  and 
that  there  were  other  eyes  on  Dick  besides  her 
own.  Let  her  watch  him  closely  about  the 
house,  and  he  would  keep  a  look-out  elsewhere. 
If  there  was  anything  new,  she  must  let  him 
know  at  once.  Send  up  one  of  the  men-ser¬ 
vants,  and  he  would  come  down  at  a  moment’s 
warning. 

There  was  really  nothing  definite  against  this 
young  man ;  but  the  Doctor  was  sure  that  he 
was  meditating  some  evil  design  or  other.  He 
rode  straight  up  to  the  Institute.  There  he  savp 


/ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


457 


Mr.  Bernard,  and  had  a  brief  conversation  with 
him,  principally  on  matters  relating  to  hi?  per¬ 
sonal  interests. 

That  evening,  for  some  unknown  reason,  Mr. 
Bernard  changed  the  place  of  his  desk  and  drew 
down  the  shades  of  his  windows.  Late  that 
night  Mr.  Richard  Yenner  drew  the  charge  of 
a  rifle,  and  put  the  gun  back  among  the  fowl¬ 
ing-pieces,  swearing  that  a  leather  halter  wai 
worth  a  dozen  of  it. 


438 


ELSIE  VENNEB. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

THE  PERILOUS  HOUR. 

Up  to  this  time  Dick  Yenner  had  not  decided 
on  the  particular  mode  and  the  precise  period  of 
relieving  himself  from  the  unwarrantable  interfer¬ 
ence  which  threatened  to  defeat  his  plans.  The 
luxury  of  feeling  that  he  had  his  man  in  his 
power  was  its  own  reward.  One  who  watches 
in  the  dark,  outside,  while  his  enemy,  in  utter 
unconsciousness,  is  illuminating  his  apartment 
and  himself  so  that  every  movement  of  his  head 
and  every  button  on  his  coat  can  be  seen  and 
counted,  experiences  a  peculiar  kind  of  pleasure, 
if  he  holds  a  loaded  rifle  in  his  hand,  which  he 
naturally  hates  to  bring  to  its  climax  by  testing 
his  skill  as  a  marksman  upon  the  object  of  his 
attention. 

Besides,  Dick  had  two  sides  in  his  nature,  al¬ 
most  as  distinct  as  we  sometimes  observe  in  those 
persons  who  are  the  subjects  of  the  condition 
known  as  double  consciousness .  On  his  New 
England  side  he  was  cunning  and  calculating 
always  cautious,  measuring  his  distance  before 
he  risked  his  stroke,  as  nicely  as  if  he  were 


/ 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


439 


throwing  his  lasso.  But  he  was  liable  to  inter- 
current  fits  of  jealousy  and  rage,  such  as  the 
light-hued  races  are  hardly  capable  of  conceiv¬ 
ing, —  blinding  paroxysms  of  passion,  which  for 
the  time  overmastered  him,  and  which,  if  they 
found  no  ready  outlet,  transformed  themselves 
into  the  more  dangerous  forces  that  worked 
through  the  instrumentality  of  his  cool  crafti¬ 
ness. 

He  had  failed  as  yet  in  getting  any  positive 
evidence  that  there  was  any  relation  between 
Elsie  and  the  school-master  other  than  such  as 
might  exist  unsuspected  and  unblamed  between 
a  teacher  and  his  pupil.  A  book,  or  a  note, 
even,  did  not  prove  the  existence  of  any  senti¬ 
ment.  At  one  time  he  would  be  devoured  by 
suspicions,  at  another  he  would  try  to  laugh 
himself  out  of  them.  And  in  the  mean  while 
he  followed  Elsie’s  tastes  as  closely  as  he  could, 
determined  to  make  some  impression  upon  her, 
—  to  become  a  habit,  a  convenience,  a  neces¬ 
sity, —  whatever  might  aid  him  in  the  attain¬ 
ment  of  the  one  end  which  was  now  the  aim 
of  his  life. 

It  was  to  humor  one  of  her  tastes  already 
known  to  the  reader,  that  he  said  to  her  one 
morning,  — u  Come,  ELsie,  take  your  castanets 
and  let  us  have  a  dance.” 

He  had  struck  the  right  vein  in  the  girl’s  fancy 
for  she  was  in  the  mood  for  this  exercise,  and  very 
willingly  led  the  way  into  one  of  the  more  empty 


4. 

440  ELSIE  YENNER. 

apartments.  What  there  was  in  this  particulai 
kind  of  dance  which  excited  her  it  might  not  be 
easy  to  guess ;  but  those  who  looked  in  with  the 
old  Doctor,  on  a  former  occasion,  and  saw  ner, 
will  remember  that  she  was  strangely  carried 
away  by  it,  and  became  almost  fearful  in  the 
vehemence  of  her  passion.  The  sound  of  the 
castanets  seemed  to  make  her  alive  all  over 
Dick  knew  well  enough  what  the  exhibition 
would  be,  and  was  almost  afraid  of  her  at 
these  moments ;  for  it  was  like  the  dancing 
mania  of  Eastern  devotees,  more  than  the  ordi¬ 
nary  light  amusement  of  joyous  youth,  —  a  con¬ 
vulsion  of  the  body  and  the  mind,  rather  than 
a  series  of  voluntary  modulated  motions. 

Elsie  rattled  out  the  triple  measure  of  a 
saraband.  Her  eyes  began  to  glitter  more  brill¬ 
iantly,  and  her  shape  to  undulate  in  freer  curves. 
Presently  she  noticed  that  Dick’s  look  was  fixed 
upon  her  necklace.  Eds  face  betrayed  his  cari¬ 
osity  ;  he  was  intent  on  solving  the  question*, 
why  she  always  wore  something  about  her  neck. 
The  chain  of  mosaics  she  had  on  at  that  moment 
displaced  itself  at  every  step,  and  he  was  peering 
with  malignant,  searching  eagerness  to  see  if  an 
unsunned  ring  of  fairer  hue  than  the  rest  of  the 
surface,  or  any  less  easily  explained  peculiarity 
Were  hidden  by  her  Ornaments. 

She  stopped  suddenly,  caught  the  chain  of 
mosaics  and  settled  it  hastily  in  its  place,  flung 
down  her  castanets,  drew  herself  back,  ard  stooo 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


441 


looking  at  him,  with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side, 
and  her  eyes  narrowing  in  the  way  he  had  Known 
so  long  and  well. 

“What  is  the  matter,  Cousin  Elsie?  What 
do  you  stop  for  ?  ”  he  said. 

Elsie  did  not  answer,  but  kept  her  eyes  off 
him,  full  of  malicious  light.  The  jealousy  which 
lay  covered  up  under  his  surface-thoughts  took 
this  opportunity  to  break  out. 

“  You  wouldn’t  act  so,  if  you  were  dancing 
with  Mr.  Langdon,  —  would  you,  Elsie  ?  ”  he 
asked. 

It  was  with  some  effort  that  he  looked  steadily 
at  her  to  see  the  effect  of  his  question. 

Elsie  colored ,  —  not  much,  but  still  perceptibly. 
Dick  could  not  remember  that  he  had  ever  seen 
her  show  this  mark  of  emotion  before,  in  all  his 
experience  of  her  fitful  changes  of  mood.  It 
had  a  singular  depth  of  significance,  therefore, 
for  him ;  he  knew  how  hardly  her  color  came. 
Blushing  means  nothing,  in  some  persons;  in  oth¬ 
ers,  it  betrays  a  profound  inward  agitation,  —  a 
perturbation  of  the  feelings  far  more  trying  than 
the  passions  which  with  many  easily  moved  per¬ 
sons  break  forth  in  tears.  All  who  have  observed 
much  are  aware  that  some  men,  who  have  seen 
a  good  deal  of  life  in  its  less  chastened  aspects 
and  are  anything  but  modest,  will  blush  often 
and  easily,  while  there  are  delicate  and  sensitive 
women  who  can  faint,  or  go  into  fits,  if  nec¬ 
essary,  but  are  very  rarely  seen  to  betray  theii 


442 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


feelings  in  their  cheeks,  even  when  their  expres¬ 
sion  shows  that  their  inmost  soul  is  blushing 
scarlet. 

Presently  she  answered,  abruptly  and  scorn- 
fully,  — 

“  Mr.  Langdon  is  a  gentleman,  and  would  not 
vex  me  as  you  do.” 

u  A  gentleman !  ”  Dick  answered,  with  the 
most  insulting  accent, —  “a  gentleman!  Come, 
Elsie,  you’ve  got  the  Dudley  blood  in  your  veins, 
and  it  doesn’t  do  for  you  to  call  this  poor,  sneak¬ 
ing  school-master  a  gentleman !  ” 

He  stopped  short.  Elsie’s  bosom  was  heaving, 
the  faint  flush  on  her  cheek  was  becoming  a  vivid 
glow.  Whether  it  were  shame  or  wrath,  he  saw 
that  he  had  reached  some  deep-lying  centre  of 
emotion.  There  was  no  longer  any  doubt  in 
his  mind.  With  another  girl  these  signs  of  con¬ 
fusion  might  mean  little  or  nothing ;  with  her 
they  were  decisive  and  final.  Elsie  Venner 
laved  .  Bernard  Langdon. 

The  sudden  conviction,  absolute,  overwhelm¬ 
ing,  which  rushed  upon  him,  had  wellnigh  led 
an  explosion  of  wrath,  and  perhaps  some 
terrible  scene  which  might  have  fulfilled  some 
of  Old  Sophy’s  predictions.  This,  however, 
would  never  do.  Dick’s  face  whitened  with 
his  thoughts,  but  he  kept  still  until  he  could 
epeak  calmly. 

u  I’ve  nothing  against  the  young  fellow,”  he 
Baicf ;  u  only  I  don’t  think  there’s  anything  quite 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


443 


/ 

good  enough  to  keep  the  company  of  people  that 
have  the  Dudley  blood  in  them.  You  a’n’t  as 
proud  as  I  am.  I  can’t  quite  make  up  my  mind 
to  call  a  school-master  a  gentleman,  though  this 
one  may  be  well  enough.  I’ve  nothing  against 
him,  at  any  rate.” 

Elsie  made  no  answer,  but  glided  out  of  the 
room  and  slid  away  to  her  own  apartment.  She 
bolted  the  door  and  drew  her  curtains  close. 
Then  she  threw  herself  on  the  floor,  and  fell 
into  a  dull,  slow  ache  of  passion,  without  tears 
without  words,  almost  without  thoughts.  So 
she  remained,  perhaps,  for  a  half-hour,  at  the 
end  of  which  time  it  seemed  that  her  passion 
had  become  a  sullen  purpose.  She  arose,  and, 
looking  cautiously  round,  went  to  the  hearth, 
which  was  ornamented  with  curious  old  Dutch 
tiles,  with  pictures  of  Scripture  subjects.  One 
of  these  represented  the  lifting  of  the  brazen 
serpent.  She  took  a  hair-pin  from  one  of  her 
braids,  and,  insinuating  its  points  under  the  edge 
of  the  tile,  raised  it  from  its  place.  A  small 
leaden  box  lay  under  the  tile,  which  she  opened, 
and,  taking  from  it  a  little  white  powder,  which 
she  folded  in  a  scrap  of  paper,  replaced  the  box 
and  the  tile  over  it. 

Whether  Dick  had  by  any  means  got  a  knowl¬ 
edge  of  this  proceeding,  or  whether  he  only  sus¬ 
pected  some  unmentionable  design  on  her  part, 
there  is  no  sufficient  means  of  determining.  Ai 
any  rate,  when  they  meti  an  hour  or  two  after 


444 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


these  occurrences,  he  could  not  help  noticing  how 
easily  she  seemed  to  have  got  over  her  excitement. 
She  was  very  pleasant  with  him,  —  too  pleasant, 
Dick  thought.  It  was  not  Elsie’s  way  to  come  out 
of  a  fit  of  anger  so  easily  as  that.  She  had  con¬ 
trived  some  way  of  letting  off  her  spite  ;  that  wag 
certain.  Dick  was  pretty  cunning,  as  Old  Sophy 
had  said,  and,  whether  or  not  he  had  any  means 
of  knowing  Elsie’s  private  intentions,  watched 
her  closely,  and  was  on  his  guard  against  acci¬ 
dents. 

For  the  first  time,  he  took  certain  precautions 
with  reference  to  his  diet,  such  as  were  quite  alien 
to  his  common  habits.  On  coming  to  the  dinner- 
table,  that  day,  he  complained  of  headache,  took 
but  little  food,  and  refused  the  cup  of  coffee  which 
Elsie  offered  him,  saying  that  it  did  not  agree 
with  him  when  he  had  these  attacks. 

Here  was  a  new  complication.  Obviously 
enough,  he  could  not  live  in  this  way,  suspecting 
everything  but  plain  bread  and  water,  and  hardly 
feeling  safe  in  meddling  with  them.  Not  only 
had  this  school-keeping  wretch  come  between 
him  and  the  scheme  by  which  he  was  to  secure 
his  future  fortune,  but  his  image  had  so  infected 
his  cousin’s  mind  that  she  was  ready  to  try  on 
him  some  of  those  tricks  which,  as  he  had  heard 
hinted  in  the  village,  she  had  once  before  put  in 
practice  upon  a  person  who  had  become  odious 
to  her. 

Something  must  be  done,  and  at  once,  to  meet 


/ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


445 


the  double  necessities  of  this  case.  Every  cfey, 
While  the  young  girl  was  in  these  relations  with 
the  young  man,  was  only  making  matters  worse* 
They  could  exchange  words  and  looks,  they  could 
arrange  private  interviews,  they  would  be  stoop¬ 
ing  together  over  the  same  book,  her  hair  touching 
his  cheek,  her  breath  mingling  with  his,  all  the 
magnetic  attractions  drawing  them  together  with 
strange,  invisible  effluences.  As  her  passion  for 
the  school-master  increased,  her  dislike  to  him,  her 
cousin,  would  grow  with  it,  and  all  his  dangers 
would  be  multiplied.  It  was  a  fearful  point  he 
had  reached.  He  was  tempted  at  one  moment  to 
give  up  all  his  plans  and  to  disappear  suddenly 
from  the  place,  leaving  with  the  school-master, 
who  had  come  between  him  and  his  object,  an 
anonymous  token  of  his  personal  sentiments 
which  would  be  remembered  a  good  while  in 
the  history  of  the  town  of  Rockland.  This  was 
but  a  momentary  thought  ;  the  great  Dudley 
property  could  not  be  given  up  in  that  way. 

Something  must  happen  at  once  to  break  up 
all  this  order  of  things.  He  could  think  of  but 
one  Providential  event  adequate .  to  the  emergen¬ 
cy, —  an  event  foreshadowed  by  various  recent 
circumstances,  but  hitherto  floating  in  his  mind 
only  as  a  possibility.  Its  occurrence  would  at 
once  change  the  course  of  Elsie  s  feelings,  provid¬ 
ing  her  with  something  to  think  of  besides  mis¬ 
chief,  and  remove  the  accursed  obstacle  which 
was  thwarting  all  his  own  projects.  Every  pos- 


446 


ELSIE  VEjSTNER. 


Bible  motive,  then,  —  his  interest,  his  jealousy,  his 
longing  for  revenge,  and  now  his  fears  for  his  own 
safety,  —  urged  him  to  regard  the  happening  of  a 
certain  casualty  as  a  matter  of  simple  necessity, 
This  was  the  self-destruction  of  Mr.  Bernard 
Langdon. 

Such  an  event,  though  it  might  be  surprising 
to  many  people,  would  not  be  incredible,  nor 
without  many  parallel  cases.  He  was  poor,  a 
miserable  fag,  under  the  control  of  that  mean 
wretch  up  there  at  the  school,  who  looked  as  if 
he  had  sour  buttermilk  in  his  veins  instead  of 
blood.  He  was  in  love  with  a  girl  above  his 
station,  rich,  and  of  old  family,  but  strange  in  all 
her  ways,  and  it  was  conceivable  that  he  should 
become  suddenly  jealous  of  her.  Or  she  might 
have  frightened  him  with  some  display  of  her 
peculiarities  which  had  filled  him  with  a  sudden 
repugnance  in  the  place  of  love.  Any  of  these 
things  were  credible,  and  would  make  a  probable 
story  enough,  —  so  thought  Dick  over  to  himself 
with  the  New-England  half  of  his  mind. 

Unfortunately,  men  will  not  always  take  them¬ 
selves  out  of  the  way  when,  so  far  as  their  neigh¬ 
bors  are  concerned,  it  would  be  altogether  the 
most  appropriate  and  graceful  and  acceptable 
service  they  could  render.  There  was  at  this 
particular  moment  no  special  reason  for  believ¬ 
ing  that  the  school-master  meditated  any  violence 
jo  his  own  person.  On  the  contrary,  there  waa 
good  evidence  that  he  was  taking  some  care  of 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


447 


himself.  He  was  looking  well  and  in  good  spirits, 
and  in  the  habit  of  amusing  himself  and  exer¬ 
cising,  as  if  to  keep  up  his  standard  of  health, 
especially  of  faking  certain  evening-walks,  before 
referred  to,  at  an  hour  when  most  of  the  Rock¬ 
land  people  had  “  retired,”  or,  in  vulgar  language, 
u  gone  to  bed.” 

Dick  Yenner  settled  it,  however,  in  his  own 
mind,  that  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  must  lay  violent 
hands  upon  himself.  He  even  went  so  far  as  to 
determine  the  precise  hour,  and  the  method  in 
which  the  u  rash  act,”  as  it  would  undoubtedly  be 
called  in  the  next  issue  of  “  The  Rockland  Week¬ 
ly  Universe,”  should  be  committed.  Time,  —  this 
evening.  Method,  —  asphyxia,  by  suspension.  It 
was,  unquestionably,  taking  a  great  liberty  with 
a  man  to  decide  that  he  should  become  felo  de  se 
without  his  own  consent.  Such,  however,  was 
the  decision  of  Mr.  Richard  Yenner  with  regard 
to  Mr.  Bernard  Langdon. 

If  everything  went  righi,  then,  there  would  be 
a  coroner’s  inquest  to-morrow  upon  what  remained 
of  that  gentleman,  found  suspended  to  the  branch 
of  a  tree  somewhere  within  a  mile  of  the  Apollin- 
ean  Institute.  The  “  Weekly  Universe  ”  would 
have  a  startling  paragraph  announcing  a  11  SAD 
EVENT!!!”  which  had  “thrown  the  town  into 
an  intense  state  of  excitement.  Mr.  Barnard 
Langden,  a  well  known  teacher  at  the  Appolinian 
Institute,  was  found,  etc.,  etc.  The  vital  spark 
tvas  extinct.  The  motive  to  the  rash  act  can  onb? 


*48 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


be  conjectured,  but  is  supposed  to  be  disapointed 
affection.  The  name  of  an  accomplished  young 
lady  of  the  highest  respectability  and  great  beauty 
is  mentioned  in  connection  with  this  melencholy 
occurence.” 

Dick  Venner  was  at  the  tea-table  that  evening, 
as  usual.  —  No,  he  would  take  green  tea,  if  she 
pleased,  —  the  same  that  her  father  drank.  It 
would  suit  his  headache  better.  —  Nothing,  —  he 
was  much  obliged  to  her.  He  would  help  himself, 
—  which  he  did  in  a  little  different  way  from  com¬ 
mon,  naturally  enough,  on  account  of  his  head¬ 
ache.  He  noticed  that  Elsie  seemed  a  little  ner¬ 
vous  while  she  was  rinsing  some  of  the  teacups 
before  their  removal. 

“  There’s  something  going  on  in  that  witch’s 
head,”  he  said  to  himself.  “  I  know  her,  —  she’d 
be  savage  now,  if  she  hadn’t  got  some  trict  in 
hand.  Let’s  see  how  she  looks  to-morrow !  ” 

Dick  announced  that  he  should  go  to  bed  early 
that  evening,  on  account  of  this  confounded  head¬ 
ache  which  had  been  troubling  him  so  much,  [n 
fact,  he  went  up  early,  and  locked  his  door  after 
him,  with  as  much  noise  as  he  could  make.  He 
then  changed  some  part  of  his  dress,  so  that  it 
should  be  dark  throughout,  slipped  off  his  boots, 
drew  the  lasso  out  from  the  bottom  of  the  con¬ 
tents  of  his  trunk,  and,  carrying  that  and  his  boots 
in  his  hand,  opened  his  door  softly,  locked  it  after 
him,  and  stole  down  the  back-stairs,  so  as  to  ge 
Dut  of  the  house  unnoticed.  He  went  straight'  jpO 


ELSIE  VEaSTNER. 


449 


the  stable  and  saddled  the  mustang.  He  took  a 
rope  from  the  stable  with  him,  mounted  his  horse, 
and  set  forth  in  the  direction  of  the  Institute. 

Mr.  Bernard,  as  we  have  seen,  had  not  been 
very  profoundly  impressed  by  the  old  Doctor’s 
lautions,  —  enough,  however,  to  follow  out  some 
of  his  hints  which  were  not  troublesome  to  attend 
to.  He  laughed  at  the  idea  of  carrying  a  loaded 
pistol  about  with  him ;  but  still  it  seemed  only 
fair,  as  the  old  Doctor  thought  so  much  of  the 
matter,  to  humor  him  about  it.  As  for  not  going 
about  when  and  where  he  liked,  for  fear  he  might 
have  some  lurking  enemy,  that  was  a  thing  not 
to  be  listened  to  nor  thought  of.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  ashamed  of  or  troubled  about  in 
any  of  his  relations  with  the  school-girls.  Elsie, 
no  doubt,  showed  a  kind  of  attraction  towards 
him,  as  did  perhaps  some  others;  but  he  had  been 
perfectly  discreet,  and  no  father  or  brother  or  lover 
had  any  just  cause  of  quarrel  with  him.  To  be 
sure,  that  dark  young  man  at  the  Dudley  man¬ 
sion-house  looked  as  if  he  were  his  enemy,  when 
he  had  met  him ;  but  certainly  there  was  nothing 
in  their  relations  to  each  other,  or  in  his  own  to 
Elsie,  that  would  be  like  to  stir  such  malice  in 
his  mind  as  would  lead  him  to  play  any  of  his 
Wild  Southern  tricks  at  his,  Mr.  Bernard’s,  ex¬ 
pense.  Yet  he  had  a  vague  feeling  that  this 
young  man  was  dangerous,  and  he  had  been 
given  to  understand  that  one  of  the  risks  he  ran 
was  from  that  quarter. 

29 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


450 

On  this  particular  evening,  he  had  a  strange 
unusual  sense  of  some  impending  peril.  His 
recent  interview  with  the  Doctor,  certain  remarks 
which  had  been  dropped  in  his  hearing,  but  above 
all  an  unaccountable  impression  upon  his  spirits, 
all  combined  to  fill  his  mind  with  a  foreboding 
conviction  that  he  was  very  near  some  overshad*' 
owing  danger.  It  was  as  the  chill  of  the  ice- 
mountain  toward  which  the  ship  is  steering  under 
full  sail.  He  felt  a  strong  impulse  to  see  Helen 
Darley  and  talk  with  her.  She  was  in  the  com¬ 
mon  parlor,  and,  fortunately,  alone. 

“  Helen,”  he  said,  —  for  they  were  almost  like 
brother  and  sister  now,  — “ 1  have  been  thinking 
what  you  would  do,  if  I  should  have  to  leave  the 
school  at  short  notice,  or  be  taken  away  sud¬ 
denly  by  any  accident.” 

“  Do  ?  ”  she  said,  her  cheek  growing  paler  than 
its  natural  delicate  hue,  —  “  why,  I  do  not  know 
how  I  could  possibly  consent  to  live  here,  if  you 
left  us.  Since  you  came,  my  life  has  been  al¬ 
most  easy ;  before,  it  was  getting  intolerable. 
You  must  not  talk  about  going,  my  dear  friend , 
you  have  spoiled  me  for  my  place.  Who  is  there 
here  that  I  can  have  any  true  society  with,  but 
you?  You  would  not  leave  us  for  another  school, 
would  you  ?  ” 

u  No,  no,  my  dear  Helen/’  Mr.  Bernard  said 
u  if  it  depends  on  myself,  I  shall  stay  out  m) 
fuh  time,  and  enjoy  your  company  and  friend 
But  everythin 7  is  uncertain  in  this  world 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


451 


1  have  been  thinking  that  I  might  be  wanted 
elsewhere,  and  called  when  I  did  not  think  of  it ; 
—  it  was  a  fancy,  perhaps,  —  but  I  can’t  keep  it 
out  of  my  mind  this  evening.  If  any  of  my 
fancies  should  come  true,  Helen,  there  are  two  or 
three  messages  I  want  to  leave  with  you.  I  have 
marked  a  book  or  two  with  a  cross  in  pencil  on 
the  fly-leaf;  —  these  are  for  you.  There  is  a  little 
hymn-book  I  should  like  to  have  you  give  to 
Elsie  from  me ;  —  it  may  be  a  kind  of  comfort 
to  the  poor  girl.” 

Helen’s  eyes  glistened  as  she  interrupted 
him,  — 

“  What  do  you  mean?  You  must  not  talk 
so,  Mr.  Langdon.  Why,  you  never  looked  bet¬ 
ter  in  your  life.  Tell  me  now,  you  are  not  in 
earnest,  are  you,  but  only  trying  a  little  sentiment 
vui  me  ?  ” 

Mr.  Bernard  smiled,  but  rather  sadly. 

“  About  half  in  earnest,”  he  said.  “  I  have 
had  some  fancies  in  my  head,  —  superstitions,  I 
suppose,  —  at  any  rate,  it  does  no  harm  to  tell 
you  what  I  should  like  to  have  done,  if  anything 
should  happen,  —  very  likely  nothing  ever  will. 
Send  the  rest  of  the  booths  home,  if  you  please, 
and  write  a  letter  to  my  mother.  And,  Helen, 
you  will  find  one  small  volume  in  my  desk  en¬ 
veloped  and  directed,  you  will  see  to  whom ;  — 
give  this  with  your  own  hands  ;  it  is  a  keepsake.” 

The  tears  gathered  in  her  eyes,*  she  could  not 
Bpeak  at  first.  Presently, — 


452 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


u  Why,  Bernard,  my  dear  friend,  my  brother,  it 
cannot  be  that  you  are  in  danger  ?  Tell  me  what 
it  is,  and,  if  I  can  share  it  with  you,  or  counse* 
you  in  any  way,  it  will  only  be  paying  back  the 
great  debt  I  owe  you.  No,  no,  —  it  can’t  be 
true,  —  you  are  tired  and  worried,  and  your  spirits 
have  got  depressed.  I  know  what  that  is  ;  —  I 
was  sure,  one  winter,  that  I  should  die  before 
spring ;  but  I  lived  to  see  the  dandelions  and 
buttercups  go  to  seed.  Come,  tell  me  it  was 
nothing  but  your  imagination.” 

She  felt  a  tear  upon  her  cheek,  but  would  not 
turn  her  face  away  from  him;  it  was  the  tear 
of  a  sister. 

“  I  am  really  in  earnest,  Helen,”  he  said.  “  I 
don’t  know  that  there  is  the  least  reason  in  the 
world  for  these  fancies.  If  they  all  go  off  and 
nothing  comes  of  them,  you  may  laugh  at  me,  if 
you  like.  But  if  there  should  be  any  occasion, 
remember  my  requests.  You  don’t  believe  in 
presentiments,  do  you  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  don’t  ask  me,  I  beg  you,”  Helen  an¬ 
swered.  “  I  have  had  a  good  many  frights  for 
every  one  real  misfortune  I  have  suffered.  Some¬ 
times  I  have  thought  I  was  warned  beforehand 
of  coming  trouble,  just  as  many  people  are  of 
changes  in  the  weather,  by  some  unaccountable 
feeling,  —  but  not  often,  and  I  don’t  like  to  talk 
about  such  things.  I  wouldn’t  think  about  these 
fancies  of  yours.  I  don’t  believe  you  have 
exercised  enough ;  —  don’t  you  think  it’s  con 


ELSIE  VEXXER.  453 

finement  in  the  school  has  made  you  ner¬ 
vous  ?  ” 

“  Perhaps  it  has ;  but  it  happens  that  1  have 
thought  more  of  exercise  lately,  and  have  taken 
regular  evening  walks,  besides  playing  my  old 
gymnastic  tricks  every  day.” 

They  talked  on  many  subjects,  but  through  all 
he  said  Helen  perceived  a  pervading  tone  of  sad¬ 
ness,  and  an  expression  as  of  a  dreamy  forebod¬ 
ing  of  unknown  evil.  They  parted  at  the  usual 
hour,  and  went  to  their  several  rooms.  The  sad¬ 
ness  of  Mr.  Bernard  had  sunk  into  the  heart  of 
Helen,  and  she  mingled  many  tears  with  her 
prayers  that  evening,  earnestly  entreating  that  he 
might  be  comforted  in  his  days  of  trial  and  pro¬ 
tected  in  his  hour  of  danger. 

Mr.  Bernard  stayed  in  his  room  a  short  time 
before  setting  out  for  his  evening  walk.  His  eye 
fell  upon  the  Bible  his  mother  had  given  him 
when  he  left  home,  and  he  opened  it  in  the  New 
Testament  at  a  venture.  It  happened  that  the 
first  words  he  read  were  these,  —  “  Lest ,  coming 
suddenly ,  he  find  you  sleeping .”  In  the  state  of 
mind  in  which  he  was  at  the  moment,  the  text 
etartled  him.  It  was  like  a  supernatural  warn* 
ing.  He  was  not  going  to  expose  himself  to  an 
particular  danger  this  evening;  a  walk  in  a  quiet 
village  was  as  free  from  risk  as  Helen  Harley  or 
his  own  mother  could  ask ;  vet  he  had  an  unac- 
countable  feeling  of  apprehension,  without  any 
definite  object.  At  this  moment  he  remembered 


454 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  old  Doctor’s  counsel,  which  he  had  sometime# 
neglected,  and,  blushing  at  the  feeling  which  led 
him  to  do  it,  he  took  the  pistol  his  suspicious  old 
friend  had  forced  upon  him,  which  he  had  put 
away  loaded,  and,  thrusting  it  into  his  pocket,  set 
out  upon  his  walk. 

The  moon  was  shining  at  intervals,  for  the 
night  was  partially  clouded.  There  seemed  to  be 
nobody  stirring,  though  his  attention  was  unusu¬ 
ally  awake,  and  he  could  hear  the  whirr  of  the 
bats  overhead,  and  the  pulsating  croak  of  the 
frogs  in  the  distant  pools  and  marshes.  Presently 
he  detected  the  sound  of  hoofs  at  some  distance, 
and,  looking  forward,  saw  a  horseman  coming  in 
his  direction.  The  moon  was  under  a  cloud  at 
the  moment,  and  he  could  only  observe  that  the 
horse  and  his  rider  looked  like  a  single  dark  ob¬ 
ject,  and  that  they  were  moving  along  at  an  easy 
pace.  Mr.  Bernard  was  really  ashamed  of  him¬ 
self,  when  he  found  his  hand  on  the  butt  of  his 
pistol.  When  the  horseman  was  within  a  hun¬ 
dred  and  fifty  yards  of  him,  the  moon  shone  out 
suddenly  and  revealed  each  of  them  to  the  other. 
The  rider  paused  for  a  moment,  as  if  carefully 
surveying  the  pedestrian,  then  suddenly  put  his 
horse  to  the  full  gallop,  and  dashed  towards  him 
rising  at  the  same  instant  in  his  stirrups  and 
swinging  something  round  his  head, — what,  Mr. 
Bernard  could  not  make  out.  It  was  a  ./trance 
manoeuvre,  —  so  strange  and  threatening  in  as¬ 
pect  that  the  young  man  forgot  his  nervo* "***$ 


ELSIE  VENJNTER. 


455 


in  an  instant,  cocked  his  pistol,  and  waited  to  see 
what  mischief  all  this  meant.  He  did  not  wait 
ong.  As  the  rider  came  rushing  towards  him, 
he  made  a  rapid  motion  and  something  leaped 
five-and-twenty  feet  through  the  air,  in  ]Mr.  Ber¬ 
nardos  direction.  In  an  instant  he  felt  a  ling, 
as  of  a  rope  or  thong,  settle  upon  his  shoulders, 
There  was  no  time  to  think,  —  he  would  be  lost 
in  another  second.  He  raised  his  pistol  and  firecfc- 
— •  not  at  the  rider,  but  at  the  horse.  His  aim 
was  true ;  the  mustang  gave  one  bound  and  fell 
lifeless,  shot  through  the  head.  The  lasso  was 
fastened  to  his  saddle,  and  his  last  bound  threw 
Mr.  Bernard  violently  to  the  earth,  where  he  la^ 
motionless,  as  if  stunned. 

In  the  mean  time,  Dick  Venner,  who  had  beer 
dashed  down  with  his  horse,  was  trying  to  extri 
cate  himself,  —  one  of  his  legs  being  held  fas' 
under  the  animal,  the  long  spur  on  his  boot  hav 
ing  caught  in  the  saddle-cloth.  He  found,  how 
ever,  that  he  could  do  nothing  with  his  right  arm 
his  shoulder  having  been  in  some  way  injured  ii 
his  fall.  But  his  Southern  blood  was  up,  and,  at 
he  saw  Mr.  Bernard  move  as  if  he  were  coming 
to  his  senses,  he  struggled  violently  to  free  him¬ 
self. 

“  I’ll  have  the  dog,  yet,”  he  said,  —  “  only  let 
me  get  at  him  with  the  Knife!” 

He  had  just  succeeded  in  extricating  his  im¬ 
prisoned  leg,  and  was  ready  to  spring  to  his  feet, 
when  he  was  caught  firmly  by  the  throat,  and 


155 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


looking  up,  saw  a  clumsy  barbed  weapon,  com- 
monly  known  as  a  hay-fork,  within  an  inch  of 
his  breast. 

“  Hold  on  there  !  What  ’n  thunder  V  y' 
abaout,  y’  darned  Portagee  ?  ”  said  a  voice,  with 
a  decided  nasal  tone  in  it,  but  sharp  and  reso¬ 
lute. 

Dick  looked  from  the  weapon  to  the  person 
who  held  it,  and  saw  a  sturdy,  plain  man  stand¬ 
ing  over  him,  with  his  teeth  clinched,  and  his 
aspect  that  of  one  all  ready  for  mischief. 

“  Lay  still,  naow !  ”  said  Abel  Stebbins,  the 
Doctor’s  man ;  “  ’f  y’  don’t,  I’ll  stick  ye,  ’z  sure 
’z  y’  V  alive  !  I  been  aafter  ye  f’r  a  week,  ’n’  I 
got  y’  naow !  I  knowed  I’d  ketch  ye  at  some 
darned  trick  or  ’nother  ’fore  I’d  done  ’ith  ye  !  ” 

Dick  lay  perfectly  still,  feeling  that  he  was 
crippled  and  helpless,  thinking  all  the  time  with 
Uie  Yankee  half  of  his  mind  what  to  do  about  it. 
He  saw  Mr.  Bernard  lift  his  head  and  look  around 
him.  He  would  get  his  senses  again  in  a  few 
minutes,  very  probably,  and  then  he,  Mr.  Richard 
Venner  would  be  done  for. 

“  Let  me  up !  let  me  up !  ”  he  cried,  in  a  low 
hurried  voice,  —  “  I’ll  give  you  a  hundred  dollar 
In  gold  to  let  me  go.  The  man  a’n’t  hurt, — 
don’t  you  see  him  stirring  ?  He’ll  come  to  him¬ 
self  in  two  minutes.  Let  me  up  !  I’ll  give  you 
a  hundred  and  fifty  dollars  in  gold,  now,  here  or 
the  spot, — and  the  watch  out  of  my  pocket  tak« 
it  yourself,  with  your  own  hands !  ” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


457 


“  I’ll  see  y’  darned  fust !  Ketch  me  lett’n’  go !  ” 
was  Abel’s  emphatic  answer.  11  Yeou  lay  still,  ’n’ 
wait  t’ll  that  man  comes  tew.” 

lie  kept  the  hay-fork  ready  for  action  at  the 
slightest  sign  of  resistance. 

Mr.  Bernard,  in  the  mean  time,  had  been  get¬ 
ting,  first  his  senses,  and  then  some  few  of  hia 
scattered  wits,  a  little  together. 

u  What  is  it  ?  ”  —  he  said.  “  Who’s  hurt  ? 
What’s  happened  ?  ” 

“  Come  along  here  ’z  quick  ’z  y’  ken,”  Abel  an¬ 
swered,  “  ’n’  haiilp  me  fix  this  fellah.  Y’  been 
hurt,  y’rself,  ’n’  the’  ’s  murder  come  pooty  nigh 
happenin’.  ” 

Mr.  Bernard  heard  the  answer,  but  presently 
stared  about  and  asked  again,  u  Who's  hurt  ? 
What's  happened  ?  ” 

u  Y5  ’r’  hurt,  y’rself,  I  tell  ye,”  said  Abel ;  u  ’n’ 
the’  ’s  been  a  murder,  pooty  nigh.” 

Mr.  Bernard  felt  something  about  his  neck, 
and,  putting  his  hands  up,  found  the  loop  of  the 
lasso,  which  he  loosened,  but  did  not  think  to  slip 
over  his  head,  in  the  confusion  of  his  perceptions 
and  thoughts.  It  was  a  wonder  that  it  had  not 
choked  him,  but  he  had  fallen  forward  so  as  to 
slacken  it. 

By  this  time  he  was  getting  some  notion  of 
what  he  was  about,  and  presently  began  looking 
ound  for  his  pistol,  which  had  fallen.  He  found 
it  lying  near  him,  cocked  it  mechanically,  and 
walked,  somewhat  unsteadily,  towards  the  two 


458 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


men,  who  were  keeping  their  position  as  still  as 
if  they  were  performing  in  a  tableau . 

“  Quick,  naow !  ”  said  Abel,  who  had  heard  the 
click  of  cocking  the  pistol,  and  saw  that  he  held 
it  in  his  hand,  as  he  came  towards  him.  “  Gi’  m 
that  pistil,  and  yeou  fetch  that  ’ere  rope  layin 
there.  I’ll  have  this  here  fellah  fixed  ’n  less  ’n 
two  minutes.” 

Mr.  Bernard  did  as  Abel  said,  —  stupidly  and 
mechanically,  for  he  was  but  half  right  as  yet. 
Abel  pointed  the  pistol  at  Dick’s  head. 

“  Naow  hold  up  y’r  hands,  yeou  fellah,”  he 
e<iid,  “  ’n’  keep  ’em  up,  while  this  man  puts  the 
rope  raound  y’r  wrists.” 

Dick  felt  himself  helpless,  and,  rather  than  have 
his  disabled  arm  roughly  dealt  with,  held  up  his 
hands.  Mr.  Bernard  did  as  Abel  said  ;  he  was  in 
a  purely  passive  state,  and  obeyed  orders  like  a 
child.  Abel  then  secured  the  rope  in  a  most 
thorough  and  satisfactory  complication  of  twists 
and  knots. 

“  Naow  get  up,  will  ye  ?  ”  he  said  ;  and  the  un¬ 
fortunate  Dick  rose  to  his  feet. 

“  Who's  hurt  ?  What's  happened  ?  "  asked  poor 
Mr.  Bernard  again,  his  memory  having  been  com¬ 
pletely  jarred  out  of  him  for  the  time. 

“  Come,  look  here  naow,  yeou,  don’  stan’  aask- 
in’  questions  over  ’n’  over;  —  ’t  beats  all !  ha’n’t  I 
toP  y’  a  dozen  times  ?  ” 

As  Abel  spoke,  he  turned  and  looked  at  Mi 
Bernard. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


45  'J 

“  Hullo  !  What  ’n  thunder’s  that  ’ere  raoun’ 
y’r  neck  ?  lvetched  ye  ’ith  a  slippernoose,  hey  ? 
Wal.  if  that  a’n’t  the  craowner !  Hoi’  on  a  min- 
ate,  Cap’n,  ’n’  I’ll  show  ye  what  that  ’ere  halter’s 
good  for.” 

Abel  slipped  the  noose  over  Mr.  Bernard’s  head, 
and  put  it  round  the  neck  of  the  miserable  Dick 
Venner,  who  made  no  sign  of  resistance,  —  wheth¬ 
er  oil  account  of  the  pain  he  was  in,  or  from  mere 
helplessness,  or  because  he  was  waiting  for  some 
unguarded  moment  to  escape, < —  since  resistance 
seemed  of  no  use. 

“  I’m  go’n’  to  kerry  y’  home,”  said  Abel ;  u  th’ 
ol’  Doctor,  he’s  got  a  gre’t  cur’osity  t’  see  ye.  Jes’ 
step  along  naow,  —  off  that  way,  will  ye?  —  ’n’ 
I’ll  hoi’  on  t’  th’  bridle,  f’  fear  y’  sh’d  run  away.” 

He  took  hold  of  the  leather  thong,  but  found 
that  it  was  fastened  at  the  other  end  to  the  saddle. 
This  was  too  much  for  Abel. 

“  Wal,  naow,  yeou  be  a  pooty  chap  to  hev 
raound !  A  fellah’s  neck  in  a  slippernoose  at  one 
eend  of  a  halter,  ’n’  a  hoss  on  th’  full  spring  at 
t’other  eend !  ” 

He  looked  at  him  from  head  to  foot  as  a  nat¬ 
uralist  inspects  a  new  specimen.  His  clothes  had 
suffered  in  his  fall,  especially  on  the  leg  which 
had  been  caught  undsr  the  horse. 

w  Hullo !  look  o’  there,  naow  !  What’s  that 
ere  stickin’  aout  o’  y’r  boot  ?  ” 

It  w  is  nothing  but  the  handle  of  an  ugly  knife, 
which  Abel  instantly  relieved  him  of. 


460 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


The  party  now  took  up  the  line  of  march  foi 
Did  Doctor  Kittredge’s  house,  Abel  carrying  the 
pistol  and  knife,  and  Mr.  Bernard  walking  in 
silence,  still  half-stunned,  holding  the  hay -fork, 
which  Abel  had  thrust  into  his  hand.  It  was  all 
a  dream  to  him  as  yet.  He  remembered  the 
horseman  riding  at  him,  and  his  firing  the  pistol; 
but  whether  he  was  alive,  and  these  walls  around 
him  belonged  to  the  village  of  Rockland,  or 
whether  he  had  passed  the  dark  river,  and  was 
in  a  suburb  of  the  New  Jerusalem,  he  could  not 
as  yet  have  told. 

They  were  in  the  street  where  the  Doctor’s 
house  was  situated. 

“  I  guess  I’ll  fire  off  one  o’  these  here  berrils,” 
said  Abel. 

He  fired. 

Presently  there  was  a  noise  of  opening  windows, 
and  the  nocturnal  head-dresses  of  Rockland  flow¬ 
ered  out  of  them  like  so  many  developments  of 
the  Night-blooming  Cereus.  White  cotton  caps 
and  red  bandanna  handkerchiefs  were  the  prevail¬ 
ing  forms  of  efflorescence.  The  main  point  was 
that  the  village  was  waked  up.  The  old  Doctor 
always  waked  easily,  from  long  habit,  and  was 
the  first  among  those  who  looked  out  to  see  what 
had  happened. 

u  Why,  Abel !  ”  he  called  out,  “  what  have  you 
got  there  ?  and  what’s  all  this  noise  about  ?  ” 

“  We’ve  ketched  the  Portagee!”  Abel  an¬ 
swered,  as  laconically  as  the  hero  of  Lake  Erie 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


461 


in  his  famous  dispatch.  “  Go  in  there,  you  fel¬ 
lah!” 

The  prisoner  was  marched  into  the  house, 
and  the  Doctor,  who  had  bewitched  his  clothes 
upon  him  in  a  way  that  would  have  been  mi* 
aculous  in  anybody  but  a  physician,  was  down 
in  presentable  form  as  soon  as  if  it  had  been  a 
child  in  a  fit  that  he  was  sent  for. 

“Richard  Venner!”  the  Doctor  exclaimed. 
“  What  is  the  meaning  of  all  this  ?  Mr  Lang- 
don,  has  anything  happened  to  you  ?  ” 

Mr.  Bernard  put  his  hand  to  his  head. 

“  My  mind  is  confused,”  he  said.  “  I’ve  had 
a  fall.  —  Oh,  yes !  —  wait  a  minute  and  it  will 
all  come  back  to  me.” 

“  Sit  down,  sit  down,”  the  doctor  said.  “  Abel 
will  tell  me  about  it.  Slight  concussion  of  the 
brain.  Can’t  remember  very  well  for  an  hour  or 
two,  —  will  come  right  by  to-morrow.” 

“  Been  stunded,”  Abel  said.  “  He  can’t  tell 
nothin’.” 

Abel  then  proceeded  to  give  a  Napoleonic 
bulletin  of  the  recent  combat  of  cavalry  and 
infantry  and  its  results,  —  none  slain,  one  cap¬ 
tured. 

The  Doctor  looked  at  the  prisoner  through  Ilia 

gpectacles. 

“  What’s  the  matter  with  your  shoulder,  Ven- 
aer  ?  ” 

Dick  answered  sullenly,  that  he  didn’t  know,  — 
fell  on  it  when  his  horse  came  lown.  The  Doc- 


162 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


tor  examined  it  as  carefully  as  he  could  through 
his  clothes. 

“  Out  of  joint.  Untie  his  hands,  Abel.” 

By  this  time  a  small  alarm  had  spread  among 
the  neighbors,  and  there  was  a  circle  around  Dick 
who  glared  about  on  the  assembled  honest  people 
like  a  hawk  with  a  broken  wing. 

When  the  Doctor  said,  “  Untie  his  hands,”  the 
circle  widened  perceptibly. 

“  Isn’t  it  a  leetle  rash  to  give  him  the  use  of 
his  hands  ?  I  see  there’s  females  and  children 
standin’  near.” 

This  was  the  remark  of  our  old  friend,  Dea¬ 
con  Soper,  who  retired  from  the  front  row,  as  he 
spoke,  behind  a  respectable-looking,  but  some¬ 
what  hastily  dressed  person  of  the  defenceless 
sex,  the  female  help  of  a  neighboring  household, 
accompanied  by  a  boy,  whose  unsmoothed  shock 
of  hair  looked  like  a  last-yearls  crow’s-nest. 

But  Abel  untied  his  hands,  in  spite  of  the  Dea¬ 
con’s  considerate  remonstrance. 

“  Now,”  said  the  Doctor,  “  the  first  thing  is  to 
put  the  joint  back.” 

“  Stop,”  said  Deacon  Soper,  —  “stop  a  minute, 
Don’t  you  think  it  will  be  safer  —  for  the  women¬ 
folks —  jest  to  wait  till  mornin’,  afore  you  put 
that  j’int  into  the  socket  ?  ” 

Colonel  Sprowle,  who  had  been  called  by  a 
special  messenger,  spoke  up  at  this  moment. 

“  Let  the  women-folks  and  the  deacons  gc 
Dome,  if  they’re  scared,  and  put  the  fellah’s  j’inJ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


463 


in  as  quick  as  you  like.  I’ll  resk  him,  j’int  in 
or  out.” 

“  I  want  one  of  you  to  go  straight  down  to 
Dudley  Yenner’s  with  a  message,”  the  Doctor 
said.  “  I  will  have  the  young  man’s  shoulder 
m  quick  enough.” 

“Don’t  send  that  message!”  said  Dick,  in  a 
hoarse  voice  ;  —  “do  what  you  lik^  with  my  arm, 
but  don’t  send  that  message!  Let  me  go,  —  I 
can  walk,  and  I’ll  be  off  from  this  place.  There’s 
nobody  hurt  but  myself.  Damn  the  shoulder!  — 
let  me  go !  You  shall  never  hear  of  me  again !  ” 

Mr.  Bernard  came  forward. 

“My  friends,”  he  said,  “J  am  not  injured, 
-seriously,  at  least.  Nobody  need  complain 
against  this  man,  if  I  don’t.  The  Doctor  will 
treat  him  like  a  human  being,  at  any  rate ;  and 
then,  if  he  will  go,  let  him.  There  are  too  many 
witnesses  against  him  here  for  him  to  want  to 
*tay.” 

The  Doctor,  in  the  mean  time,  without  saying 
a  word  to  all  this,  had  got  a  towel  round  the 
shoulder  and  chest  and  another  round  the  arm, 
and  had  the  bone  replaced  in  a  very  few  min* 
utes. 

“  Abel,  put  Cassia  into  the  new  chaise,”  he 
paid,  quietly.  “  My  friends  and  neighbors,  leave 
this  young  man  to  me.” 

“  Colonel  Sprow1^,  you’re  a  justice  of  the 
Deace,”  said  Deacon  Soper,  “  and  you  know 
what  the  law  says  in  cases  liko  this.  I  a’n’t 


164 


ELSIE  VEXNER 


bo  clear  that  it  won’t  have  to  come  afore  the 
Grand  Jury,  whether  we  will  or  no.” 

“  I  guess  we’ll  set-  that  j’int  to-morrow  morn- 
in’,”  said  Colonel  Sprowle,  —  which  made  a 
laugh  at  the  Deacon’s  expense,  and  virtu  ally 
settled  the  question. 

“  Now  trust  this  young  man  in  my  care,”  said 
the  old  Doctor,  “  and  go  home  and  finish  your 
naps.  I  knew  him  when  he  was  a  boy  and  I’ll 
answer  for  it,  he  won’t  trouble  you  any  more. 
The  Dudley  blood  makes  folks  proud,  I  can  tel] 
you,  whatever  else  they  are.” 

The  good  people  so  respected  and  believed  in 
the  Doctor  that  they  left  the  prisoner  with  him. 

Presently,  Cassia,  the  fast  Morgan  mare,  came 
up  to  the  front-door,  with  the  wheels  of  the  new, 
light  chaise  flashing  behind  her  in  the  moonlight. 
The  Doctor  drove  Dick  forty  miles  at  a  stretch 
that  night,  out  of  the  limits  of  the  State. 

u  Do  you  want  money  ?  ”  he  said,  before  he 
eft  him. 

Dick  told  him  the  secret  of  his  golden  belt. 

u  Where  shall  I  send  your  trunk  after  you 
from  your  uncle’s  ?  ” 

Dick  gave  him  a  direction  to  a  seaport  town 
to  which  he  himself  was  going,  to  take  passage 
for  a  port  in  South  America. 

“  Good-bye,  Richard,”  said  the  Doctor.  “  Tr)’ 
to  learn  something  from  to-night’s  lesson.” 

The  Southern  impulses  in  Dick’s  wild  blooc 
overcame  him,  and  he  kissed  the  old  Doctor  or. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


4G5 

both  cheeks,  crying  as  only  the  children  of  the 
sun  can  cry,  after  the  first  hours  in  the  dewy 
morning  of  life.  So  Dick  Venner  disappears 
from  this  story.  An  hour  after  dawn,  Cassia 
pointed  hei  fine  ears  homeward,  and  struck  into 
her  square,  honest  trot,  as  if  she  had  not  been 
doing  anything  more  than  her  duty  during  her 
four  hours’  stretch  of  the  last  night. 

Abel  was  not  in  the  habit  of  questioning  the 
Doctor’s  decisions. 

“  It’s  all  right,”  he  said  to  Mr.  Bernard.  “  The 
fellah’s  Squire  Venner’s  relation,  anyhaow.  Don’t 
you  want  to  wait  here,  jest  a  little  while,  till  I 
come  back  ?  The’  ’s  a  consid’able  nice  saddle  ’n’ 
bridle  on  a  dead  hoss  that’s  layin’  daown  there 
in  the  road  ’n’  I  guess  the’  a’n’t  no  use  in  lettin’ 
on  ’em  spile,  —  so  I’ll  jest  step  aout  ’n’  fetch  ’em 
along.  I  kind  o’  calc’late ’t  won’t  pay  to  take  the 
cretur’s  shoes  ’n’  hide  off  to-night,  —  ’n’  the’  won’t 
be  much  iron  on  that  hoss’s  huffs  an  haour  after 
daylight,  I’ll  bate  ye  a  quarter.” 

“  I’ll  walk  along  with  you,”  said  Mr.  Bernard; 
—  “I  feel  as  if  I  could  get  along  well  enough 
now.” 

So  they  set  off  together.  There  was  a  little 
crowd  round  the  dead  mustang  already,  princi- 
Dally  consisting  of  neighbors  who  had  adjourned 
from  the  Doctor’s  house  to  see  the  scene  of  the 
late  adventure.  In  addition  to  these,  however, 
the  assembly  was  honored  oy  the  presence  of  Mr. 
Principal  Silas  Peckham,  who  had  been  called 

30 


4GG 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


from  his  slumbers  by  a  message  that  Master 
Langdon  was  shot  through  the  head  by  a  high¬ 
way-robber,  but  had  learned  a  true  version  of 
the  story  by  this  time.  His  voice  was  at  that 
moment  heard  above  the  rest,  —  sharp,  but  thin 
like  bad  cider-vinegar. 

“  I  take  charge  of  that  property,  I  say.  Master 
Langdon’s  actin’  under  my  orders,  and  I  claim 
that  hoss  and  all  that’s  on  him.  Hiram!  jest  slip 
off  that  saddle  and  bridle,  and  carry  ’em  up  to 
the  Institoot,  and  bring  down  a  pair  of  pinchers 
and  a  file,  —  and  —  stop  —  fetch  a  pair  of  shears, 
too ;  there’s  hoss-hair  enough  in  that  mane  and 
tail  to  stuff  a  bolster  with.” 

“  You  let  that  hoss  alone !  ”  spoke  up  Colonel 
Sprowle.  “  When  a  fellah  goes  out  huntin’  and 
shoots  a  squirrel,  do  you  think  he’s  go’n’  to  let 
another  fellah  pick  him  up  and  kerry  him  off? 
Not  if  he’s  got  a  double-berril  gun,  and  t’other 
berril  ha’n’t  been  fired  off  yet !  I  should  like  to 
see  the  mahn  that’ll  take  off  that  seddle  ’n’  bridle, 
excep’  the  one  th’t  hez  a  fair  right  to  the  whole 
concern ! ” 

Hiram  was  from  one  of  the  lean  streaks  in  New 
Hampshire,  and,  not  being  overfed  in  Mr.  Silas 
Peckham’s  kitchen,  was  somewhat  wanting  in 
stamina,  as  well  as  in  stomach,  for  so  doubtful 
an  enterprise  as  undertaking  to  carry  out  his  em¬ 
ployer’s  orders  in  the  face  of  the  Colonel’s  de« 
fiance. 

Just  then  Mr.  Bernard  and  Abel  came  up  to 
gether. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


467 


“  Here  they  be,”  said  the  Colonel.  “  Stan’  beck, 
gentlemen !  ” 

Mr.  Bernard,  who  was  pale  and  still  a  little  con¬ 
fused,  but  gradually  becoming  more  like  himself, 
stood  and  looked  in  silence  for  a  moment. 

All  his  thoughts  seemed  to  be  clearing  them* 
selves  in  this  interval.  He  took  in  the  whole 
series  of  incidents  :  his  own  frightful  risk ;  the 
strange,  instinctive,  nay,  Providential  impulse 
which  had  led  him  so  suddenly  to  do  the  one  only 
thing  which  could  possibly  have  saved  him ;  the 
sudden  appearance  of  the  Doctor’s  man,  but  for 
which  he  might  yet  have  been  lost ;  and  the  dis¬ 
comfiture  and  capture  of  his  dangerous  enemy. 

It  was  all  past  now,  and  a  feeling  of  pity  rose 
in  Mr.  Bernard’s  heart. 

“He  loved  that  horse,  no  doubt,”  he  said,— 
“  and  no  wonder.  A  beautiful,  wild-looking  crea¬ 
ture  !  Take  off  those  things  that  are  on  him, 
Abel,  and  have  them  carried  to  Mr.  Dudley  Ven- 
ner’s.  If  he  does  not  want  them,  you  may  keep 
them  yourself,  for  all  that  I  have  to  say.  One 
thing  more.  I  hope  nobody  will  lift  his  hand 
against  this  noble  creature  to  mutilate  him  in 
any  way.  After  you  have  taken  off  the  saddle 
and  bridle,  Abel,  bury  him  just  as  he  is.  Under 
that  old  beech-tree  will  be  a  good  place.  You’ll 
Bee  to  it,  —  won’t  you,  Abel  ?  ” 

Abel  nodded  assent,  and  Mr.  Bernard  returned 
to  *he  Institute,  threw  himself  in  his  clothes  on 
the  bed,  and  slept  like  one  who  is  heavy  with 
vine. 


4G8 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Following  Mr.  Bernard's  wishes,  Abel  at  once 
took  off  the  high-peaked  saddle  and  the  richly  orna¬ 
mented  bridle  from  the  mustang.  Then,  with  the 
aid  of  two  or  three  others,  he  removed  him  to  the 
place  indicated.  Spades  and  shovels  were  soo 
procured,  and  before  the  moon  had  set,  the  wila 
horse  of  the  Pampas  was  at  rest  under  the  turf  at 
the  way-side,  in  the  far  village  am  ong  the  hills  of 
New  England. 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


469 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

THE  NEWS  REACHES  THE  DUDLEY  MANSION. 

Early  the  next  morning  Abel  Stebbins  made 
his  °ppearance  at  Dudley  Vernier’s,  and  requested 
to  see  the  matin  o’  the  haouse  abaout  somethin’ 
o’  consequence.  Mr.  Venner  sent  word  that  the 
messenger  should  wait  below,  and  presently  ap¬ 
peared  in  the  study,  where  Abel  was  making  him¬ 
self  at  home,  as  is  the  wont  of  the  republican  cit¬ 
izen,  when  he  hides  the  purple  of  empire  beneath 
the  apron  of  domestic  service. 

“  Good  mornin’,  Squire !  ”  said  Abel,  as  Mr. 
Venner  entered.  “  My  name’s  Stebbins,  ’n’  I’m 
stoppin’  Pr  a  spell  ,’ith  ol’  Doctor  Kittredge.” 

“  Well,  Stebbins,”  said  Mr.  Dudley  Venner, 
u  have  you  brought  any  special  message  from 
the  Doctor  ?  ” 

u  Y’  ha’n’t  heerd  nothin’  abaout  it,  Squire,  d’ 
ye  meant’  say?”  said  Abel,  —  beginning  to  sus¬ 
pect  that  he  was  the  first  to  bring  the  news  of  last 
evening’s  events. 

“  About  what?”  asked  Mr.  Venner,  with  som* 
interest. 

w  Dew  tell,  naow  !  Waal,  that  beats  all !  Wh} 


470 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


that  ’ere  Portagee  relation  o’  yourn  ’z  been  tryin’ 
t’  ketch  a  fellah  ’n  a  slippernoose,  ’n’  got  ketched 
himself,  —  that’s  all.  Y’  ha’n’t  heerd  noth’n’ 
abaout  it  ?  ” 

“  Sit  down,”  said  Mr.  Dudley  Venner,  calmly 
*  and  tell  me  all  you  have  to  say.” 

So  Abel  sat  down  and  gave  him  an  account  of 
the  events  of  the  last  evening.  It  was  a  strange 
and  terrible  surprise  to  Dudley  Yenner  to  find 
that  his  nephew,  who  had  been  an  inmate  of  hia 
house  and  the  companion  of  his  daughter,  was  to 
all  intents  and  purposes  guilty  of  the  gravest  of 
crimes.  But  the  first  shock  was  no  sooner  over 
than  he  began  to  think  what  effect  the  news  would 
have  on  Elsie.  He  imagined  that  there  was  a 
kind  of  friendly  feeling  between  them,  and  he 
feared  some  crisis  would  be  provoked  in  his 
daughter’s  mental  condition  by  the  discovery. 
He  would  wait,  however,  until  she  came  from 
her  chamber,  before  disturbing  her  with  the  evil 
tidings. 

Abel  did  not  forget  his  message  with  reference 
to  the  equipments  of  the  dead  mustang. 

“  The’  was  some  things  on  the  boss,  Squire, 
that  the  man  he  ketched  said  he  didn’  care  no 
gre’t  abaout ;  but  perhaps  you’d  like  to  have  ’em 
fetched  to  the  mansion-haouse.  Ef  y’  didn ’  care 
abaout  ’em,  though,  I  shouldn’  min’  keepin’  on 
’em ;  they  might  come  handy  some  time  01 
nothcr :  they  say,  holt  on  t’  anything  for  ten  yea; 
there’ll  be  some  kin’  o’  use  for ’t.” 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


471 


*  rt  Keep  everything,”  said  Dudley  Venner.  11 1 
don’t  want  to  see  anything  belonging  to  that 
young  man.” 

So  Abel  nodded  to  Mr.  Venner,  and  left  the 
study  to  find  some  of  the  men  about  the  stable 
to  tell  and  talk  over  with  them  the  events  of 
the  last  evening.  He  presently  came  upon  El- 
bridge,  chief  of  the  equine  department,  and  driver 
of  the  family-coach. 

“  Good  mornin’,  Abe,”  said  Elbridge.  “What’s 
fetched  y’  daown  here  so  all-fired  airly  ?  ” 

“  You’re  a  darned  pooty  lot  daown  here,  you 
be !  ”  Abel  answered.  “  Better  keep  your  Port- 
agees  t’  home  nex’  time,  ketchin’  folks  ’ith  slipper- 
nooses  raoun’  their  necks,  ’n’  kerryin’  knives  ’n 
their  boots !  ” 

“  What  V  you  jawin’  abaout?  ”  Elbridge  said, 
looking  up  to  see  if  he  was  in  earnest,  and  what 
he  meant. 

“  Jaivirt  abaout  ?  You’ll  find  aout  ’z  soon  ’z 
y’  go  into  that  ’ere  stable  o’  youm !  Y’  won’t 
curry  that  ’ere  long-tailed  black  boss  no  more  ;  ’n’ 
y’  won’t  set  y’r  eyes  on  the  fellah  that  rid  him, 
ag’in,  in  a  hurry!  ” 

Elbiidge  walked  straight  to  the  stable,  without 
Baying  a  word,  found  the  door  unlocked,  and 
went  in. 

“  Til’  critter’s  gone,  sure  enough !  ”  he  said. 
“  Glad  on  ’t !  The  darndest,  kickin’est,  bitin’est 
neast  th’t  ever  I  see,  ’r  ever  wan’  t’  see  ag’in ! 
Good  reddance!  Don’  wan’  no  snappin’-turkles 


472 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


in  my  stable !  Whar’s  the  man  gone  th’t  brought 
the  critter  ?  ” 

“  Whar  he  ’s  gone  ?  Guess  y’  better  go  ’n 
aiisk  my  ol’  man ;  he  kerried  him  off  la'as’  night* 
’n’  when  he  comes  back,  mebbe  he’ll  tell  ye  whai 
he’s  gone  tew !  ” 

By  this  time  Elbridge  had  found  out  that  Abel 
was  in  earnest,  and  had  something  to  tell.  lie 
looked  at  the  litter  in  the  mustang’s  stall,  then  at 
the  crib. 

“  Ha’n’t  eat  b’t  haiilf  his  feed.  Ha’n’t  been 
daown  on  his  straw.  Must  ha’  been  took  aout 
somewhere  abaout  ten  ’r  ’leven  o’clock.  I  know 
that  ’ere  critter’s  ways.  The  fellah’s  had  him 
aout  nights  afore ;  b’t  I  never  thought  nothin’  o’ 
no  mischief.  He’s  a  kin’  o’  haiilf  Injin.  What 
is  ’t  the  chap  ’s  been  a-doin’  on?  Tell  ’s  ah 
abaout  it.” 

Abel  sat  down  on  a  meal-chest,  picked  up  a 
straw  and  put  it  into  his  mouth.  Elbridge  sat 
down  at  the  other  end,  pulled  out  his  jack-knife, 
opened  the  penknife-blade,  and  began  sticking  it 
into  the  lid  of  the  meal-chest.  The  Doctor’s  man 
aad  a  story  to  tell.,  and  he  meant  to  get  all  the 
enjoyment  out  of  it.  So  he  told  it  with  every 
luxury  of  circumstance.  Mr.  Venner’s  man  heard 
it  all  with  open  mouth.  No  listener  in  the  gar¬ 
dens  of  Stamboul  could  have  found  more  rapture 
in  a  tale  heard  amidst  the  perfume  of  roses  and 
the  voices  of  birds  and  tinkling  of  fountains  than 
Elbridge  in  following  Abel’s  narrative,  as  the* 


ELSIE  VENEER. 


473 


sat  there  in  the  aromatic  ammoniacal  atmosphere 
of  the  stable,  the  grinding  of  the  horses’  jaws 
keeping  evenly  on  through  it  all,  with  now  and 
then  the  interruption  of  a  stamping  hoof,  and  at 
intervals  a  ringing  crow  from  the  barn-yard. 

Elbridge  stopped  a  minute  to  think,  after  Ab 
had  finished. 

“  Who’s  took  care  o’  them  things  that  was  on 
the  boss  ?  ”  he  said,  gravely. 

“  Wal.il,  Langden,  he  seemed  to  kin’  o’  think 
I’d  ought  to  have  ’em,  —  ’n’  the  Squire,  he  didn’ 
seem  to  have  no  ’bjection ;  ’n’  so,  —  waal,  I  cal- 
c’late  I  sh’ll  jes’  holt  on  to  ’em  myself;  they  a’n’t 
good  f’r  much,  but  they’re  cur’ous  t’  keep  t’  look 
at.” 

Mr.  Venner’s  man  did  not  appear  much  grat¬ 
ified  by  this  arrangement,  especially  as  he  had  a 
shrewd  suspicion  that  some  of  the  ornaments  of 
the  bridle  were  of  precious  metal,  having  made 
occasional  examinations  of  them  with  the  edge 
of  a  file.  But  he  did  not  see  exactly  what  to  do 
about  it,  except  to  get  them  from  Abel  in  the 
way  of  bargain. 

“  Waal,  no,  —  they  oHvDl  good  for  much  ’xcep’ 
to  look  at.  ’F  y’  ever  rid  on  that  seddle  once, 
y’  wouldn’  try  it  ag’in,  very  spry,  —  not  ’f  y’  c’d 
haiilp  y’rsaiilf.  J  tried  it,  —  darned  ’f  I  sot  daown 
f’r  th’  nex’  week,  —  eat  all  my  victuals  stan’in’ 
l  sh’d  like  t’  hev  them  things  wal  enough  to  heng 
up  ’n  the  stable  ;  ’f  y’  want  t’  trade  some  day 
fetch  ’em  along  daown.” 


474 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


Abel  rather  expected  that  Elbridge  would  have 
.aid  claim  to  the  saddle  and  bridle  on  the  strength 
of  some  promise  or  other  presumptive  title,  and 
thought  himself  lucky  to  get  off  with  only  offer* 
ing  to  think  abaout  tradin’. 

When  Elbridge  returned  to  the  house,  he  found 
the  family  in  a  state  of  great  excitement.  Mr, 
Venner  had  told  Old  Sophy,  and  she  had  in¬ 
formed  the  other  servants.  Everybody  knew 
what  had  happened,  excepting  Elsie.  Her  fathei 
had  charged  them  all  to  say  nothing  about  it  to 
her ;  he  would  tell  her,  when  she  came  down. 

He  heard  her  step  at  last,  —  a  light,  gliding 
step,  —  so  light  that  her  coming  was  often  un¬ 
heard,  except  by  those  who  perceived  the  faint 
rustle  that  went  with  it.  She  was  paler  than 
common  this  morning,  as  she  came  into  her  fa¬ 
ther’s  study. 

After  a  few  words  of  salutation,  he  said  qui- 
etly, — 

“  Elsie,  my  dear,  your  cousin  Richard  has  left 
us.” 

She  grew  still  paler,  as  she  asked, — 

11  Is  he  dead  ?  ” 

Dudley  Venner  started  to  see  the  expression 
with  which  Elsie  put  this  question. 

“  He  is  living,  —  but  dead  to  us  from  this  day 
forward,”  said  her  father. 

He  proceeded  to  tell  her,  in  a  general  way,  the 
6tory  he  had  just  heard  from  Abel.  There  could 
oe  no  doubting  it;  —  he  remembered  him  as  th« 


* 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


475 


Doctor’s  man;  and  as  Abel  had  seen  all  with  his 
Dwn  eyes,  —  as  Dick’s  chamber,  when  unlocked 
with  a  spare  key,  was  found  empty,  and  his  bed 
had  not  been  slept  in,  he  accepted  the  whole  acv 
count  as  true. 

When  he  told  of  Dick’s  attempt  on  the  young 
school-master,  (“  You  know  Mr.  Langdon  very 
well,  Elsie,  —  a  perfectly  inoffensive  young  man, 
as  I  understand,”)  Elsie  turned  her  face  away 
and  slid  along  by  the  wall  to  the  window  which 
looked  out  on  the  little  grass-plot  with  the  white 
stone  standing  in  it.  Her  father  could  not  see 
her  face,  but  he  knew  by  her  movements  that  her 
dangerous  mood  was  on  her.  When  she  heard 
the  sequel  of  the  story,  the  discomfiture  and  cap¬ 
ture  of  Dick,  she  turned  round  for  an  instant, 
with  a  look  of  contempt  and  of  something  like 
triumph  upon  her  face.  Her  father  saw  that  her 
cousin  had  become  odious  to  her.  He  knew  well, 
by  every  change  of  her  countenance,  by  her  move¬ 
ments,  by  every  varying  curve  of  her  graceful  fig¬ 
ure,  the  transitions  from  passion  to  repose,  from 
fierce  excitement  to  the  dull  languor  which  often 
succeeded  her  threatening  paroxysms. 

She  remained  looking  out  at  the  window.  A 
group  of  white  fan-tailed  pigeons  had  lighted  on 
the  green  plot  before  it  and  clustered  about  one 
of  their  companions  who  lay  on  his  back,  flutter¬ 
ing  in  a  strange  way,  with  outspread  wings  and 
twitching  feet.  "Elsie  uU  red  a  fain*  r  y;  these 
were  her  special  favor/'  ss  and  often  i  iom  her 


4:76 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


hand.  She  threw  open  the  long  window,  sprang 
out,  caught  up  the  white  fan-tail,  and  held  it  to 
her  bosom.  The  bird  stretched  himself  out,  and 
then  iay  still,  with  open  eyes,  lifeless.  She  looked 
at  him  a  moment,  and,  sliding  in  through  the 
open  window  and  through  the  study,  sought  her 
own  apartment,  where  she  locked  herself  in,  and 
began  to  sob  and  moan  like  those  that  weep. 
But  the  gracious  solace  of  tears  seemed  to  be 
denied  her,  and  her  grief,  like  her  anger,  was  a 
dull  ache,  longing,  like  that,  to  finish  itself  with 
a  fierce  paroxysm,  but  wanting  its  natural  outlet. 

This  seemingly  trifling  incident  of  the  death 
of  her  favorite  appeared  to  change  all  the  current 
of  her  thought.  Whether  it  were  the  sight  of  the 
dying  bird,  or  the  thought  that  her  own  agency 
might  have  been  concerned  in  it,  or  some  deeper 
grief,  which  took  this  occasion  to  declare  itself, 
—  some  dark  remorse  or  hopeless  longing,  — 
whatever  it  might  be,  there  was  an  unwonted 
tumult  in  her  soul.  To  whom  should  she  go  in 
her  vague  misery?  Only  to  Him  who  knows  all 
His  creatures’  sorrows,  and  listens  to  the  faintest 
human  cry.  She  knelt,  as  she  had  been  taught 
io  kneel  from  her  childhood,  and  tried  to  pray. 
But  her  thoughts  refused  to  flow  in  the.  language 
of  supplication.  She  could  not  plead  for  herself 
as  other  women  plead  in  their  hours  of  anguish, 
She  rose  like  one  who  should  stoop  to  drink,  ant, 
find  dust  in  the  place  of  water.  Partly  from  rest* 
essness,  partly  from  an  attraction  she  hardly 


477 


ELSIE  VENXEE. 

avowed  to  herself,  she  followed  her  usual  habit 
unci  strolled  listlessly  along  to  the  school. 

Of  course  everybody  at  the  Institute  was  full 
of  the  terrible  adventure  of  the  preceding  even¬ 
ing.  Mr.  Bernard  felt  poorly  enough ;  but  he 
had  made  it  a  point  to  show  himself  the  next 
morning,  as  if  nothing  had  happened.  Helen 
Dar;ey  knew  nothing  of  it  all  until  she  had  risen, 
when  the  gossipy  matron  of  the  establishment 
made  her  acquainted  with  all  its  details,  embel¬ 
lished  with  such  additional  ornamental  append¬ 
ages  as  it  had  caught  up  in  transmission  from  lip 
to  lip.  She  did  not  love  to  betray  her  sensibili¬ 
ties,  but  she  was  pale  and  tremulous  •  and  very 
nearly  tearful  when  Mr.  Bernard  entered  the  sit¬ 
ting-room,  showing  on  his  features  traces  of  the 
violent  shock  he  had  received  and  the  heavy 
slumber  from  which  he  had  risen  with  throbbing 
brows.  What  the  poor  girl’s  impulse  was,  on 
seeing  him,  we  need  not  inquire  too  curiously. 
If  he  had  been  her  own  brother,  she  would  have 
kissed  him  and  cried  on  his  neck ;  but  something 
held  her  back.  There  is  no  galvanism  in  kiss- 
)our-brother ;  it  is  copper  against  copper:  but 
alien  bloods  develop  strange  currents,  when  they 
flow  close  to  each  other,  with  only  the  films  that 
caver  lip  and  cheek  between  them.  Mr.  Bernard, 
as  some  of  us  may  remember,  violated  the  proprie¬ 
ties  and  laid  himself  open  to  reproach  by  his  en¬ 
terprise  with  a  bouncing  village-girl,  to  whose 


478 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


rosy  cheek  an  honest  smack  was  not  probably  an 
absolute  novelty.  He  made  it  all  up  by  his  dis¬ 
cretion  and  good  behavior  now.  He  saw  by 
Helen’s  moist  eye  and  trembling  lip  that  her 
woman’s  heart  was  off  its  guard,  and  he  knew, 
by  the  infallible  instinct  of  sex,  that  he  should  be 
forgiven,  if  he  thanked  her  for  her  sisterly  sympa¬ 
thies  in  the  most  natural  way,  —  expressive,  jmd 
at  the  same  time  economical  of  breath  and  utter¬ 
ance.  He  would  not  give  a  false  look  to  their 
friendship  by  any  such  demonstration.  Helen 
was  a  little  older  than  himself,  but  the  aureole 
of  young  womanhood  had  not  yet  begun  to  fade 
from  around  her.  She  was  surrounded  by  that 
enchanted  atmosphere  into  which  the  girl  walks 
with  dreamy  eyes,  and  out  of  which  the  woman 
passes  with  a  story  written  on  her  forehead. 
Some  people  think  very  little  of  these  refine¬ 
ments  ;  they  have  not  studied  magnetism  and  the 
Law  of  the  square  of  the  distance. 

So  Mr.  Bernard  thanked  Helen  for  her  interest 
without  the  aid  of  the  twenty-seventh  letter  of  the 
alphabet,  —  the  love  labial, —  the  limping  conso¬ 
nant  which  it  takes  two  to  speak  plain.  Indeed 
he  scarcely  let  her  say  a  word,  at  first ;  for  he 
caw  that  it  was  hard  for  her  to  conceal  her  emo¬ 
tion.  No  wonder;  he  had  come  within  a  hair’s- 
breadth  of  losing  his  life,  and  he  had  been  a  very 
*ind  friend  and  a  very  dear  companion  to  her. 

There  were  some  curious  spiritual  experiencei 
connected  with  his  last  evening’s  adventure 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


479 


Which  were  working  very  strongly  in  his  mind. 
It  was  borne  in  upon  him  irresistibly  that  he 
had  been  dead  since  he  had  seen  Helen,  —  as 
dead  as  the  son  of  the  Widow  of  Nain  before 
the  bier  was  touched  and  he  sat  up  and  began 
to  speak.  There  was  an  interval  between  twe 
conscious  moments  which  appeared  to  him  like 
a  temporary  annihilation,  and  the  thoughts  it 
suggested  were  worrying  him  with  strange  per¬ 
plexities. 

He  remembered  seeing  the  dark  figure  on 
horseback  rise  in  the  saddle  and  something 
leap  from  its  hand.  He  remembered  the  thrill 
he  felt  as  the  coil  settled  on  his  shoulders,  and 
the  sudden  impulse  which  led  him  to  fire  as  he 
did.  With  the  report  of  the  pistol  all  became 
blank,  until  he  found  himself  in  a  strange,  be¬ 
wildered  state,  groping  about  for  the  weapon, 
which  he  had  a  vague  consciousness  of  having 
dropped.  But,  according  to  Abel’s  account,  there 
.nust  have  been  an  interval  of  some  minutes  be¬ 
tween  these  recollections,  and  he  could  not  help 
asking,  Where  was  the  mind,  the  soul,  the  think¬ 
ing  principle,  all  this  time  ? 

A  man  is  stunned  by  a  blow  with  a  stick  on 
tne  head.  He  becomes  unconscious.  Another 
inan  gets  a  harder  blow  on  the  head  from  a 
bigger  stick,  and  it  kills  him.  Does  he  become 
unconscious,  too  ?  If  so,  ivlisn  docs  he  come  to 
*iis  consciousness  ?  The  man  who  has  had  a 
flight  or  moderate  blow  comes  to  himself  when 


iso 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


the  immediate  shock  passes  ofT  and  the  organs 
begin  to  work  again,  or  when  a  bit  of  the  skull 
is  pried  up,  if  that  happens  to  be  broken.  Sup¬ 
pose  the  blow  is  hard  enough  to  spoil  the  brain 
and  stop  the  play  of  the  organs,  what  happens 
then  ? 

A  British  captain  was  struck  by  a  cannon-ball 
on  the  head,  just  as  he  was  giving  an  order,  at 
the  Battle  of  the  Nile.  Fifteen  months  after¬ 
wards  he  was  trephined  at  Greenwich  Hospital, 
laving  been  insensible  all  that  time.  Immedi¬ 
ately  after  the  operation  his  consciousness  re¬ 
turned,  and  he  at  once  began  carrying  out  the 
order  he  was  giving  when  the  shot  struck  him. 
Suppose  he  had  never  been  trephined,  when 
would  his  consciousness  have  returned?  When 
his  breath  ceased  and  his  heart  stopped  beat- 
jug  ? 

When  Mr.  Bernard  said  to  Helen,  M  I  have 
been  dead  since  I  saw  you,”  it  startled  her  not 
a  little ;  for  his  expression  was  that  of  perfect 
good  faith,  and  she  feared  that  his  mind  was 
disordered.  When  he  explained,  not  as  has  been 
done  just  now,  at  length,  but  in  a  hurried,  imper¬ 
fect  way,  the  meaning  of  his  strange  assertion, 
and  the  fearful  Sadduceeisms  which  it  had  sug¬ 
gested  to  his  mind,  she  looked  troubled  at  first, 
and  then  thoughtful.  She  did  not  feel  able  to 
answer  all  the  difficulties  he  raised,  but  she  met 
them  with  that  faith  which  is  the  strength  as  wel 
as  the  weakness  of  women,  —  which  makes  them 


ELSIE  VENNEE. 


481 


weak  in  the  hands  of  man,  but  strong  in  the  pres¬ 
ence  of  the  Unseen. 

il  It  is  a  strange  experience,”  she  said ;  “  but  I 
once  had  something  like  it.  I  fainted,  and  lost 
some  five  or  ten  minutes  out  of  my  life,  as  much 
as  if  I  had  been  dead.  But  when  I  came  to  my¬ 
self,  I  was  the  same  person  every  way,  in  my 
recollections  and  character.  So  I  suppose  that 
loss  of  consciousness  is  not  death.  And  if  I 
was  born  out  of  unconsciousness  into  infancy 
with  many  family-t raits  of  mind  and  body,  I 
can  believe,  from  my  own  reason,  even  without 
help  from  Revelation,  that  I  shall  be  born  again 
out  of  the  unconsciousness  of  death  with  my 
individual .  traits  of  mind  and  body.  If  death 
is,  as  it  should  seem  to  be,  a  loss  of  conscious¬ 
ness,  that  does  not  shake  my  faith  ;  for  I  have 
been  put  into  a  body  once  already  to  fit  me  for 
living  here,  and  I  hope  to  be  in  some  way  fitted 
after  this  life  to  enjoy  a  better  one.  But  it  is  all 
trust  in  God  and  in  his  Word.  These  are  enough 
for  me ;  I  hope  they  are  for  you.” 

Helen  was  a  minister’s  daughter,  and  familiar 
from  her  childhood  with  this  class  of  questions, 
especially  with  all  the  doubts  and  perplexities 
which  are  sure  to  assail  every  thinking  child 
bred  in  any  inorganic  or  not  thoroughly  vital¬ 
ized  faith, —  as  is  too  often  the  case  with  the 
children  of  professional  theologians.  The  kind  of 
discipline  they  are  subjected  to  is  like  that  of  the 

Flat-Head  Indian  pappooses.  At  five  or  ten  01 

81 


*82 


ELSIE  VENNEE. 


fifteen  years  old  they  put  their  hands  up  to  theii 
foreheads  and  ask,  What  are  they  strapping 
down  my  brains  in  this  way  for  ?  So  they  teal 
off  the  sacred  bandages  of  the  great  Flat-IIeaa 
tribe,  and  there  follows  a  mighty  rush  of  blood 
to  the  long-compressed  region.  This  accounts, 
in  the  most  lucid  manner,  for  those  sudden  freaks 
with  which  certain  children  of  this  class  astonish 
their  worthy  parents  at  the  period  of  life  when 
they  are  growing  fast,  and,  the  frontal  pressure 
beginning  to  be  felt  as  something  intolerable, 
they  tear  off  the  holy  compresses. 

The  hour  for  school  came,  and  they  went  to 
the  great  hall  for  study.  It  would  not  have  oc¬ 
curred  to  Mr.  Silas  Peckham  to  ask  his  assistant 
whether  he  felt  well  enough  to  attend  to  his 
duties ;  and  Mr.  Bernard  chose  to  be  at  his 
post.  A  little  headache  and  confusion  were  all 
that  remained  of  his  symptoms. 

Later,  in  the  course  of  the  forenoon,  Elsie 
Venncr  came  and  took  her  place.  The  girls  all 
stared  at  her, —  naturally  enough;  for  it  was 
hardly  to  have  been  expected  that  she  would 
show  herself,  after  such  an  event  in  the  house¬ 
hold  to  which  she  belonged.  Her  expression 
Was  somewhat  peculiar,  and,  of  course,  was 
attributed  to  the  shock  her  feelings  had  under¬ 
gone  on  hearing  of  the  crime  attempted  by  her 
cousin  and  daily  companion.  When  she  was 
looking  on  her  book,  or  on  any  indifferent  ol> 
iect,  her  countenance  betrayed  some  inward  dia 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


483 


turbance,  which  knitted  her  dark  brows,  and 
Beemed  to  throw  a  deeper  shadow  over  her 
features.  But,  from  time  to  time,  she  would 
lift  her  eyes  toward  Mr.  Bernard,  and  let  them 
rest  upon  him,  without  a  thought,  seemingly, 
that  she  herself  was  the  subject  of  observation 
or  remark.  Then  they  seemed  to  lose  their  cold 
glitter,  and  soften  into  a  strange,  dreamy  tender¬ 
ness.  The  deep  instincts  of  womanhood  were 
striving  to  grope  their  way  to  the  surface  of  her 
being  through  all  the  alien  influences  which 
overlaid  them.  She  could  be  secret  and  cun¬ 
ning  in  working  out  any  of  her  dangerous  im¬ 
pulses,  but  she  did  not  know  how  to  mask  the 
unwonted  feeling  which  fixed  her  eyes  and  her 
thoughts  upon  the  only  person  who  had  ever 
reached  the  spring  of  her  hidden  sympathies. 

The  girls  all  looked  at  Elsie,  whenever  they 
could  steal  a  glance  unperceived,  and  many  of 
them  were  struck  with  this  singular  expression 
ter  features  wore.  They  had  long  whispered  it 
around  among  each  other  that  she  had  a  liking 
for  the  master;  but  there  were  too  many  of  them 
of  whom  something  like  this  could  be  said,  to 
tiake  it  very  remarkable.  Now,  however,  when 
so  many  little  hearts  were  fluttering  at  the  thought 
of  the  peril  through  which  the  handsome  young 
master  had  so  recently  passed,  they  were  more 
alive  than  ever  to  the  supposed  relation  between 
nim  and  the  dark  school-girl.  Some  had  sup- 
*x>sed  there  was  a  mutual  attachment  between 


484 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


them ;  there  was  a  story  that  they  were  secretly 
betrothed,  in  accordance  with  the  rumor  which 
had  been  current  in  the  village.  At  any  rate, 
some  conflict  was  going  on  in  that  still,  remote, 
clouded  soul,  and  all  the  girls  who  looked  upon  her 
face  were  impressed  and  awed  as  they  had  never 
been  before  by  the  shadows  that  passed  over  it. 

One  of  these  girls  was  more  strongly  arrested 
by  Elsie’s  look  than  the  others.  This  was  a  deli¬ 
cate,  pallid  creature,  with  a  high  forehead,  and 
wide-open  pupils,  which  looked  as  if  they  could 
take  in  all  the  shapes  that  flit  in  what,  to  com¬ 
mon  eyes,  is  darkness,  —  a  girl  said  to  be  clair¬ 
voyant  under  certain  influences.  In  the  recess ,  as 
it  was  called,  or  interval  of  suspended  studies  in 
the  middle  of  the  forenoon,  this  girl  carried  her 
autograph-book,  —  for  she  had  one  of  those  indis¬ 
pensable  appendages  of  the  boarding-school  miss 
of  every  degree,  —  and  asked  Elsie  to  write  her 
name  in  it.  She  had  an  irresistible  feeling,  that, 
sooner  or  later,  and  perhaps  very  soon,  there 
would  attach  an  unusual  interest  to  this  auto¬ 
graph.  Elsie  took  the  pen  and  wrote,  in  her  sharp 
Italian  hand, 

Elsie  Venner ,  Infelix. 

It  was  a  remembrance,  doubtless,  of  the  forlorn 
\pieen  of  the  “iEneid”;  but  its  coming  to  her 
thought  in  this  way  confirmed  the  sensitive 
Bchool-girl  in  her  fears  for  Elsie,  and  she  let  fa) 
a  tear  upon  the  page  before  she  closed  it. 


ELSIE  VENNER  485 

Of  course,  tne  keen  and  practised  observation 
of  Helen  Darley  could  not  fail  to  notice  the  change 
of  Elsie’s  manner  and  expression.  She  had  long 
seen  that  she  was  attracted  to  the  young  master, 
and  had  thought,  as  the  old  Doctor  did,  that  any 
impression  which  acted  upon  her  affections  might 
be  the  means  of  awakening  a  new  life  in  her  sin¬ 
gularly  isolated  nature.  Now,  however,  the  con¬ 
centration  of  the  poor  girl’s  thoughts  upon  the 
one  object  which  had  had  power  to  reach  her 
deeper  sensibilities  was  so  painfully  revealed  in 
her  features,  that  Helen  began  to  fear  once  more, 
lest  Mr.  Bernard,  in  escaping  the  treacherous  vio¬ 
lence  of  an  assassin,  had  been  left  to  the  equally 
dangerous  consequences  of  a  violent,  engrossing 
passion  in  the  breast  of  a  young  creature  whose 
love  it  would  be  ruin  to  admit  and  might  be  dead¬ 
ly  to  reject.  She  knew  her  own  heart  too  well  to 
fear  that  any  jealousy  might  mingle  with  her  new 
apprehensions.  It  was  understood  between  Ber¬ 
nard  and  Helen  that  they  were  too  good  friends 
to  tamper  with  the  silences  and  edging  proxim¬ 
ities  of  love-making.  She  knew,  too,  the  simply 
human,  not  masculine,  interest  which  Mr.  Ber¬ 
nard  took  in  Elsie ;  he  had  been  frank  with  Helen, 
and  more  than  satisfied  her  that  with  all  the  pity 
and  sympathy  which  overflowed  his  soul,  when 
lie  thought  of  the  stricken  girl,  there  mingled  not 
one  drop  of  such  love  as  a  youth  may  feel  for  a 
jiaiden. 

Jt  may  help  the  leader  to  gain  some  under 


186 


ELSIE  VENNEIL 


standing  of  the  anomalous  nature  of  Elsie  Ven* 
ner,  if  we  look  with  Helen  into  IMr.  Bernard's 
opinions  and  feelings  with  reference  to  her,  as 
they  had  shaped  themselves  in  his  consciousness 
at  the  period  of  which  we  are  speaking. 

At  first  he  had  been  impressed  by  her  wLd 
beauty,  and  the  contrast  of  all  her  looks  and  ways 
with  those  of  the  girls  around  her.  Presently  a 
sense  of  some  ill-defmed  personal  element,  which 
half  attracted  and  half  repelled  those  who  looked 
upon  her,  and  especially  those  on  whom  she 
looked,  began  to  make  itself  obvious  to  him,  as 
he  soon  found  it  was  painfully  sensible  to  his 
more  susceptible  companion,  the  lady-teacher. 
It  was  not  merely  in  the  cold  light  of  her  dia¬ 
mond  eyes,  but  in  all  her  movements,  in  her 
graceful  postures  as  she  sat,  in  her  costume,  and, 
he  sometimes  thought,  even  in  her  speech,  that 
this  obscure  and  exceptional  character  betrayed 
itself.  When  Helen  had  said,  that,  if  they  were 
living  in  times  when  human  beings  were  subject 
to  possession ,  she  should  have  thought  there  was 
something  not  human  about  Elsie,  it  struck  an 
unsuspected  vein  of  thought  in  his  own  mind, 
which  he  hated  to  put  in  words,  but  which  was 
continually  trying  to  articulate  itself  among  the 
dumb  thoughts  which  be  under  the  perpetual 
stream  of  mental  whispers. 

Mr.  Bernard’s  professional  training  had  made 
him  slow  to  accept  marvellous  stories  and  man) 
forms  of  superstition.  Yet,  as  a  man  of  science 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


487 


he  well  knew  that  just  on  the  verge  of  the  demon- 
ctrable  facts  of  physics  and  physiology  there  is  a 
nebulous  border-land  which  what  is  called  “  com¬ 
mon  sense  ”  perhaps  does  wisely  not  to  enter,  but 
which  uncommon  sense,  or  the  fine  apprehension 
ul  privileged  intelligences,  may  cautiously  ex¬ 
plore,  and  in  so  doing  find  itself  behind  the  scenes 
which  make  up  for  the  gazing  world  the  show 
which  is  called  Nature. 

It  was  with  something  of  this  finer  perception, 
perhaps  with  some  degree  of  imaginative  exalta¬ 
tion,  that  he  set  himself  to  solving  the  problem 
of  Elsie’s  influence  to  attract  and  repel  those 
around  her.  His  letter  already  submitted  to  the 
reader  hints  in  what  direction  his  thoughts  were 
disposed  to  turn.  Here  was  a  magnificent  organ¬ 
ization,  superb  in  vigorous  womanhood,  with  a 
beauty  such  as  never  comes  but  after  generations 
of  culture ;  yet  through  all  this  rich  nature  there 
ran  some  alien  current  of  influence,  sinuous  and 
dark,  as  when  a  clouded  -streakT^seams  the  white 
marble  of  a  perfect  statue. 

It  would  be  needless  to  repeat  the  particular 
Huggestions  which  had  come  into  his  mind,  as 
they  must  probably  have  come  into  that  of  the 
reader  who  has  noted  the  singularities  of  Elsie’s 
tastes  and  personal  traits.  The  images  which 
certain  poets  had  dreamed  of  seemed  to  have 
become  a  reality  before  nis  own  eyes.  Then 
game  that  unexplained  adventure  of  The  Moun¬ 
tain,— almost  like  a  dream  in  recollection,  yef 


488  ELSIE  VENNER. 

assuredly  real  in  some  of  its  main  incidents,—* 
with  all  that  it  revealed  or  hinted.  This  girl  did 
not  fear  to  visit  the  dreaded  region,  where  danger 
lurked  in  every  nook  and  beneath  every  tuft  of 
leaves.  Did  the  tenants  of  the  fatal  ledge  recog 
nize  some  mysterious  affinity  which  made  them 
tributary  to  the  cold  glitter  of  her  diamond  eyes  I 
Was  she  from  her  birth  one  of  those  frightful 
children,  such  as  he  had  read  about,  and  the 
Professor  had  told  him  of,  who  form  unnatural 
friendships  with  cold,  writhing  ophidians  ?  There 
was  no  need  of  so  unwelcome  a  thought  as  this; 
she  had  drawn  him  away  from  the  dark  opening 
in  the  rock  at  the  moment  when  he  seemed  to  be 
threatened  by  one  of  its  malignant  denizens  ;  that 
was  all  he  could  be  sure  of ;  the  counter-fascina¬ 
tion  might  have  been  a  dream,  a  fancy,  a  coinci¬ 
dence.  All  wonderful  things  soon  grow  doubtful 
in  our  own  minds,  as  do  even  common  events,  if 
great  interests  prove  suddenly  to  attach  to  their 
truth  or  falsehood. 

- I,  who  am  telling  of  these  occurrences. 

saw  a  friend  in  the  great  city,  on  the  morning  of 
a  most  memorable  disaster,  hours  after  the  time 
when  the  train  which  carried  its  victims  to  their 
doom  had  left.  I  talked  with  him,  and  was  for 
Eome  minutes,  at  least,  in  his  company.  When 
I  reached  home,  I  found  that  the  story  had  gone 
oefore  that  he  was  among  the  lost,  and  I  affine 
eould  contradict  it  to  his  weeping  friends  and  re. 
t  ives.  I  did  contradict  it;  but,  alas!  I  begaa 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


489 


soon  to  doubt  myself,  penetrated  by  the  contagion 
of  their  solicitude  ;  my  recollection  began  to  ques¬ 
tion  itself ;  the  order  of  events  became  dislocated  ; 
and  when  I  heard  that  he  had  reached  home  in 
safety,  the  relief  was  almost  as  great  to  me  as  to 
those  who  had  expected  to  see  their  own  brother’s 
face  no  more. 

Mr.  Bernard  was  disposed,  then,  not  to  accept 
the  thought  of  any  odious  personal  relationship 
of  the  kind  which  had  suggested  itself  to  him 
when  he  wrote  the  letter  referred  to.  That  the 
girl  had  something  of  the  feral  nature,  her  wild, 
lawless  rambles  in  forbidden  and  blasted  regions 
of  The  Mountain  at  all  hours,  her  familiarity  with 
the  lonely  haunts  where  any  other  human  foot 
was  so  rarely  seen,  proved  clearly  enough.  But 
the  more  he  thought  of  all  her  strange  instinct? 
and  modes  of  being,  the  more  he  became  con* 
vinced  that  whatever  alien  impulse  swayed  her 
will  and  modulated  or  diverted  or  displaced  her 
affections  came  from  some  impression  that  reached 
far  back  into  the  past,  before  the  days  when  the 
faithful  Old  Sophy  had  rocked  her  in  the  cradle. 
He  believed  that  she  had  brought  her  ruling 
tendency,  whatever  it  was,  into  the  world  with 
her. 

When  the  school  was  over  and  the  girls  had  all 
gone,  Helen  lingered  in  the  school-room  to  speak 
with  Mr.  Bernard. 

“  Did  you  remark  Elsie’s  ways  this  forenoop  1  n 
ihe  said. 


490 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


“  No,  not  particularly  ;  I  have  not  noticed  any 
diing  as  sharply  as  I  commonly  do  ;  my  head  haa 
been  a  little  queer,  and  I  have  been  thinking  over 
what  we  were  talking  about,  and  how  near  I 
came  to  solving  the  great  problem  which  every 
day  makes  clear  to  such  multitudes  of  people 
What  about  Elsie  ?  ” 

“  Bernard,  her  liking  for  you  is  growing  into  a 
passion.  I  have  studied  girls  for  a  long  while, 
and  I  know  the  difference  between  their  passing 
fancies  and  their  real  emotions.  I  told  you,  you 
remember,  that  Rosa  would  have  to  leave  us  ;  we 
barely  missed  a  scene,  I  think,  if  not  a  whole 
tragedy,  by  her  going  at  the  right  moment.  But 
Elsie  is  infinitely  more  dangerous  to  herself  and 
others.  Women’s  love  is  fierce  enough,  if  it  once 
gets  the  mastery  of  them,  always;  but  this  pool 
girl  does  not  know  what  to  do  with  a  passion.” 

Mr.  Bernard  had  never  told  Helen  the  story  of 
the  flower  in  his  Virgil,  or  that  other  adventure 
Which  he  would  have  felt  awkwardly  to  refer  to , 
but  it  had  been  perfectly  understood  between 
them  that  Elsie  showed  in  her  own  singular 
way  a  well-marked  partiality  for  the  young 
master. 

“  Why  don’t  they  take  her  away  from  the 
school,  if  she  is  in  such  a  strange,  excitable 
state  ? said  Mr.  Bernard. 

“  I  believe  they  are  afraid  of  her,”  Helen  an¬ 
swered.  “  It  is  just  one  of  those  cases  that  ar« 
ten  thousand  thousand  times  worse  than  insanity 


LLS12  VEN1STEB. 


491 


I  don’t  think,  from  what  I  hear,  that  her  father 
has  ever  given  np  hoping  that  she  will  outgrow 
her  peculiarities.  Oh,  these  peculiar  children  for 
whom  parents  go  On  hoping  every  morning  and 
despairing  every  night !  If  I  could  tell  you  half 
that  mothers  have  told  me,  you  would  feel  that 
the  worst  of  all  diseases  of  the  moral  sense  and 
the  will  are  those  which  all  the  Bedlams  turn 
away  from  their  doors  as  not  being  cases  of 
insanity ! 99 

“  Do  you  think  her  father  has  treated  her  judi¬ 
ciously  ?  ”  said  Mr.  Bernard. 

"  I  think,”  said  Helen,  with  a  little  hesitation, 
which  Mr.  Bernard  did  not  happen  to  notice, — 
u  I  think  he  has  been  very  kind  and  indulgent, 
and  I  do  not  know  that  he  could  have  treated  her 
otherwise  with  a  better  chance  of  success.” 

“  He  must  of  course  be  fond  of  her,”  Mr.  Ber¬ 
nard  said  ;  ^  there  is  nothing  else  in  the  world  for 
him  to  love.” 

Helen  dropped  a  book  she  held  in  her  hand, 
and,  stooping  to  pick  it  up,  the  blood  rushed  into 
her  cheeks. 

“  It  is  getting  late,”  she  said ;  a  you  must  not 
Btay  any  longer  in  this  close  school-room.  Pray, 
go  and  get  a  little  fresh  air  before  dinner-time.” 


ELSIE  YENSTEB. 


CHAPTER  XXVIL 

A  SOUL  IN  DISTRESS. 

The  events  told  in  the  last  two  chapters  had 
taken  place  toward  the  close  of  the  week.  On 
Saturday  evening  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fair- 
weather  received  a  note  which  was  left  at  his 
door  by  an  unknown  person  who  departed  with¬ 
out  saying  a  word.  Its  words  were  these  :  — 

“  One  who  is  in  distress  of  mind  requests  the 
prayers  of  this  congregation  that  God  would  be 
pleased  to  look  in  mercy  upon  the  soul  that  he 
has  afflicted.” 

There  was  nothing  to  show  from  whom  the 
note  came,  or  the  sex  or  age  or  special  source  of 
spiritual  discomfort  or  anxiety  of  the  writer.  The 
handwriting  was  delicate  and  might  well  be  a 
woman’s.  The  clergyman  was  not  aware  of  any 
particular  affliction  among  his  parishioners  which 
was  likely  to  be  made  the  subject  of  a  request  of 
this  kind.  Surely  neither  of  the  Venners  would 
advertise  the  attempted  crime  of  their  relative  is 
this  way.  But  who  else  was  there  ?  The  more 
fee  thought  about  it,  the  more  it  puzzled  him 
and  as  he  did  not  like  to  pray  in  the  dark,  with- 


492 


/ 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


493 


aut  knowing  for  whom  he  wTas  praying,  he  could 
think  of  nothing  better  than  to  step  into  old 
Doctor  Kittredge’s  and  see  1  what  he  had  to  say 
about  it. 

The  old  Doctor  was  sitting  alone  in  his  study 
when  the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  wras  ushered 
m.  He  received  his  visitor  very  pleasantly,  ex¬ 
pecting,  as  a  matter  of  course,  that  he  would  be¬ 
gin  with  some  new  grievance,  dyspeptic,  neural¬ 
gic,  bronchitic,  or  other.  The  minister,  however, 
began  with  questioning  the  old  Doctor  about  the 
sequel  of  the  other  night’s  adventure  ;  for  he  was 
already  getting  a  little  Jesuitical,  and  kept  back 
the  object  of  his  visit  until  it  should  come  up  as 
if  accidentally  in  the  course  of  conversation. 

“  It  was  a  pretty  bold  thing  to  go  off  alone 
with  that  reprobate,  as  you  did,”  said  the  min¬ 
ister. 

“  I  don’t  know  what  there  was  bold  about  it,” 
ihe  Doctor  answered.  “  All  he  wanted  was  to 
get  away.  He  was  not  quite  a  reprobate,  you 
see ;  he  didn’t  like  the  thought  of  disgracing  his 
family  or  facing  his  uncle.  I  think  he  was 
ashamed  to  see  his  cousin,  too,  after  what  ho 
i  ad  done.” 

“  Did  he  talk  with  you  on  the  way  ?  ” 

“  Not  much.  For  half  an  hour  or  so  he  didn’t 
speak  a  word.  Then  he  asked  where  I  was  driv¬ 
ing  him.  I  told  him,  and  ne  seemed  to  be  sur¬ 
prised  into  a  sort  of  grateful  feeling.  Bad  enough 
no  doubt,  —  but  might  be  worse.  Has  some  hu- 


494 


ELSIE  VEKSTER. 


manity  left  in  him  yet.  Let  him  go.  God  can 
judge  him,  —  I  can’t.” 

“  You  are  too  charitable,  Doctor,”  the  ministei 
said.  “  I  condemn  him  just  as  if  he  had  carried 
out  his  project,  which,  they  say,  was  to  make  it 
appear  as  if  the  school-master  had  committed 
suicide.  That’s  what  people  think  the  rope 
found  by  him  was  for.  He  has  saved  his  neck, 
—  but  his  soul  is  a  lost  one,  I  am  afraid,  beyond 
question.” 

“  I  can’t  judge  men’s  souls,”  the  Doctor  said. 
u  I  can  judge  their  acts,  and  hold  them  respon¬ 
sible  for  those,  —  but  I  don’t  know  much  about 
their  souls.  If  you  or  I  had  found  our  soul  in  a 
half-breed  body,  and  been  turned  loose  to  run 
among  the  Indians,  we  might  have  been  playing 
just  such  tricks  as  this  fellow  has  been  trying. 
What  if  you  or  I  had  inherited  all  the  tendencies 
that  were  born  with  his  cousin  Elsie  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  that  reminds  me,”  —  the  minister  said,  in 
a  sudden  way,  —  “I  have  received  a  note,  which 
I  am  requested  to  read  from  the  pulpit  to-morrow. 
I  wish  you  would  just  have  the  kindness  to  look 
at  it  and  see  where  you  think  it  came  from.” 

The  Doctor  examined  it  carefully.  It  was  a 
Woman’s  or  girl’s  note,  he  thought.  Might  come 
from  one  of  the  school-girls  who  was  anxious 
about  her  spiritual  condition.  Handwriting  waa 
disguised  ;  looked  a  little  like  Elsie  Venner’s,  but 
aot  characteristic  enough  to  make  it  certain.  If 
Would  be  a  new  thing,  if  she  had  asked  public 


ELSIE  YE-NTNER. 


495 


prayers  for  herself,  and  a  very  favorable  indication 
of  a  change  in  her  singular  moral  nature.  It  was 
just  possible  Elsib  might  have  sent  that  note. 
Nobody  could  foretell  her  actions.  It  would  be 
well  to  see  the  girl  and  find  out  whether  any  un¬ 
usual  impression  had  been  produced  on  her  mind 
by  the  recent  occurrence  or  by  any  other  cause. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fair  weather  folded  the  not* 
and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

“I  have  been  a  good  deal,  exercised  in  mind 
lately,  myself,”  he  said. 

The  old  Doctor  looked  at  him  through  his  spec¬ 
tacles,  and  said,  in  his  usual  professional  tone, — 

“  Put  out  your  tongue.” 

The  minister  obeyed  him  in  that  feeble  way 
common  with  persons  of  weak  character,  —  for 
people  differ  as  much  in  their  mode  of  performing 
';his  trifling  act  as  Gideon’s  soldiers  in  their  wav 
of  drinking  at  the  brook.  The  Doctor  took  his 
hand  and  placed  a  finger  mechanically  on  his 
Wrist. 

“  It  is  more  spiritual,  I  think,  than  bodily,”  said 
the  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather. 

“  Is  your  appetite  as  good  as  usual  ?  ”  the  Doc¬ 
tor  asked. 

u  Pretty  good,”  the  minister  answered  ;  “  but  my 
sleep,  my  sleep,  Doctor, —  lam  greatly  troubled 
&t  night  with  lying  awake  and  thinking  of  my 
future, —  I  am  not  at  ease  in  mind.’ 

He  looked  round  at  all  the  doors,  to  be  sure  they 
were  shut,  and  moved  his  chair  up  close  to  the 
Doctor’s 


496 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


“  You  do  not  know  the  mental  trials  I  have 
been  going  through  for  the  last  few  months.” 

“  I  think  I  do,”  the  old  Doctor  said.  “  You 
want  to  get  out  of  the  new  church  into  the  old 
one,  don’t  you  ?  ” 

The  minister  blushed  deeply ;  he  thought  he 
had  been  going  on  in  a  very  quiet  way,  and  that 
nobody  suspected  his  secret.  As  the  old  Doctor 
was  his  counsellor  in  sickness,  and  almost  every¬ 
body’s  confidant  in  trouble,  he  had  intended  to 
impart  cautiously  to  him  some  hints  of  the  change 
of  sentiments  through  which  he  had  been  passing. 
He  was  too  late  with  his  information,  it  appeared, 
and  there  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  throw 
himself  on  the  Doctor’s  good  sense  and  kindness, 
which  everybody  knew,  and  get  what  hints  he 
could  from  him  as  to  the  practical  course  he 
should  pursue.  He  began,  after  an  awkward 
pause,  — 

“  You  would  not  have  me  stay  in  a  commun¬ 
ion  which  I  feel  to  be  alien  to  the  true  church, 
would  you  ?  ” 

“  Have  you  stay,  my  friend  ?  ”  said  the  Doctor, 
with  a  pleasant,  friendly  look,  —  “  have  you  stay? 
Not  a  month,  nor  a  week,  nor  a  day,  if  1  could 
help  it.  You  have  got  into  the  wrong  pulpit,  and 
I  have  known  it  from  the  first.  The  sooner  you 
go  where  you  belong,  the  better.  And  I’m  very 
glad  you  don’t  mean  to  stop  half-way.  Don’t 
vou  know  you’ve  always  come  to  me  when  you've 
been  dyspeptic  or  sick  anyhow,  and  wanted  to 


497 


ELSIE  VENDER. 

pul  yourself  wholly  into  my  hands,  so  that  1 
might  order  you  like  a  child  just  what  to  do  and 
what  to  take  ?  That’s  exactly  what  you  want  in 
religion.  I  don’t  blame  you  for  it.  You  never 
liked  to  take  the  responsibility  of  your  own  body; 
I  don’t  see  why  you  should  want  to  have  ths 
charge  of  your  own  soul.  But  I’m  glad  you’re 
going  to  the  Old  Mother  of  all.  You  wouldn’t 
have  been  contented  short  of  that.” 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  breathed  with 
more  freedom.  The  Doctor  saw  into  his  soul 
through  those  awful  spectacles  of  his, — into  it 
and  beyond  it,  as  one  sees  through  a  thin  fog. 
But  it  was  with  a  real  human  kindness,  after  all. 
He  felt  like  a  child  before  a  strong  man  ;  but  the 
strong  man  looked  on  him  with  a  father’s  indul¬ 
gence.  Many  and  many  a  time,  when  he  had 
come  desponding  and  bemoaning  himself  on  ac¬ 
count  of  some  contemptible  bodily  infirmity,  the 
old  Doctor  had  looked  at  him  through  his  specta¬ 
cles,  listened  patiently  while  he  told  his  ailments, 
and  then,  in  his  large  parental  way,  given  him  a 
few  words  of  wholesome  advice,  and  cheered  him 
up  so  that  he  went  off  with  a  light  heart,  thinking 
that  the  heaven  he  was  so  much  afraid  of  was 
not  so  very  near,  after  all.  It  was  the  same  thing 
now.  He  felt,  as  feeble  natures  always  do  in  the 
presence  of  strong  ones,  overmastered,  circum¬ 
scribed,  shut  in,  humbled ;  but  yet  it  seemed  as  if 
‘.he  old  Doctor  did  not  despise  him  any  more  for 
arhat  he  considered  weakness  of  mind  than  ho 


498 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


used  to  despise  him  when  he  complained  of  hi 
nerves  or  his  digestion. 

Men  who  see  into  their  neighbors  are  very  apt 
io  be  contemptuous  ;  but  men  who  see  through 
them  find  something  lying  behind  every  human 
soul  which  it  is  not  for  them  to  sit  in  judgment 
on,  or  to  attempt  to  sneer  out  of  the  order  of 
God’s  manifold  universe. 

Little  as  the  Doctor  had  said  out  of  which  com¬ 
fort  could  be  extracted,  his  genial  manner  had 
something  grateful  in  it.  A  film  of  gratitude 
came  over  the  poor  man’s  cloudy,  uncertain  eye, 
and  a  look  of  tremulous  relief  and  satisfaction 
played  about  his  weak  mouth.  He  was  gravitat¬ 
ing  to  the  majority,  where  he  hoped  to  find 
“  rest  ” ;  but  he  was  dreadfully  sensitive  to  the 
opinions  of  the  minority  he  was  on  the  point  of 
leaving. 

The  old  Doctor  saw  plainly  enough  what  waa 
going  on  in  his  mind. 

“  I  sha’n’t  quarrel  with  you,”  he  said,  —  “  you 
know  that  very  well ;  but  you  mustn’t  quarrel 
with  me,  if  I  talk  honestly  with  you ;  it  isn’t 
everybody  that  will  take  the  trouble.  You  flatter 
yourself  that  you  will  make  a  good  many  ene¬ 
mies  by  leaving  your  old  communion.  Not  so 
many  as  you  think.  This  is  the  way  the  common 
sort  of  people  will  talk:  — You  have  got  your 
ticket  to  the  feast  of  life,  as  much  as  any  other 
man  that  ever  lived.  Protestantism  says,  —  u  Help 
yourself ;  here’s  a  clean  plate,  and  a  knife  ana 


ELSIE  VEENER 


499 


iork  of  youi  own,  and  plenty  of  fresh  dishes  to 
choose  from.”  The  Old  Mother  says,  —  “Give 
me  your  ticket,  my  dear,  and  I’ll  feed  you  with 
my  gold  spoon  ofF  these  beautiful  old  wooden 
trenchers.  Such  nice  bits  as  those  good  old 
gentlemen  have  left  for  you !  ”  There  is  no 
quarrelling  with  a  man  who  prefers  broken  vict¬ 
uals.’  That’s  what  the  rougher  sort  will  say ; 
and  then,  where  one  scolds,  ten  will  laugh.  But, 
mind  you,  I  don’t  either  scold  or  laugh.  I  don’t 
feel  sure  that  you  could  very  well  have  helped 
doing  what  you  will  soon  do.  You  know  you 
were  never  easy  without  some  medicine  to  take 
when  you  felt  ill  in  body.  I’m  afraid  I’ve  given 
you  trashy  stuff  sometimes,  just  to  keep  you  quiet 
Now,  let  me  tell  you,  there  is  just  the  same  dif¬ 
ference  in  spiritual  patients  that  there  is  in  bodily 
ones.  One  set  believes  in  wholesome  ways  of 
living,  and  another  must  have  a  great  list  of  spe¬ 
cifics  for  all  the  soul’s  complaints.  You  belong 
w  ith  the  last,  and  got  accidentally  shuffled  in  with 
the  others.” 

The  minister  smiled  faintly,  but  did  not  reply. 
Of  course,  he  considered  that  way  of  talking  as 
the  result  of  the  Doctor’s  professional  training. 
It  would  not  have  been  worth  while  to  take 
offence  at  his  plain  speech,  if  he  had  been  so  dis¬ 
posed  ;  for  he  might  wish  to  consult  him  the  next 
day  as  to  “  what  he  should  take  ”  for  his  dyspep¬ 
sia  or  his  neuralgia. 

He  left  the  Doctor  with  a  hollow  feeling  at  the 


dOO 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


bottom  of  his  soul,  as  if  a  good  piece  of  his  man¬ 
hood  had  been  scooped  out  of  him.  His  hollow 
aching  did  not  explain  itself  in  words,  but  it 
grumbled  and  worried  down  among  the  un 
shaped  thoughts  which  lie  beneath  them.  H , 
knew  that  he  had  been  trying  to  reason  himself 
out  of  his  birthright  of  reason.  He  knew  that 
the  inspiration  which  gave  him  understanding 
was  losing  its  throne  in  his  intelligence,  and  th  '. 
almighty  Majority- Vote  was  proclaiming  itself  in 
its  stead.  He  knew  that  the  great  primal  truths, 
which  each  successive  revelation  only  confirmed, 
were  fast  becoming  hidden  beneath  the  mechan¬ 
ical  forms  of  thought,  which,  as  with  all  new  con¬ 
verts,  engrossed  so  large  a  share  of  his  attention. 
The  “  peace,”  the  c{  rest,”  which  he  had  purchased, 
were  dearly  bought  to  one  who  had  been  trained 
to  the  arms  of  thought,  and  whose  noble  privilege 
it  might  have  been  to  live  in  perpetual  warfare  for 
the  advancing  truth  which  the  next  generation 
will  claim  as  the  legacy  of  the  present. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  was  getting 
careless  about  his  sermons.  He  must  wait  the 
fitting  moment  to  declare  himself;  and  in  th 
mean  time  he  was  preaching  to  heretics.  It  di 
not  matter  much  what  he  preached,  under  such 
circumstances.  Ho  pulled  out  two  old  yellow 
sermons  from  a  heap  of  such,  and  began  looking 
ovei  that  for  the  forenoon.  Naturally  enough 
fie  fell  asleep  over  it,  and,  sleeping,  he  began  t# 
Iream. 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


501 


He  dreamed  that  he  was  under  the  high  arches 
of  an  old  cathedral,  amidst  a  throng  of  worship¬ 
pers.  The  light  streamed  in  through  vast  windows, 
dark  with  the  purple  robes  of  royal  saints,  or 
blazing  with  yellow  glories  around  the  heads  of 
earthly  martyrs  and  heavenly  messengers.  The 
billows  of  the  great  organ  roared  among  the 
clustered  columns,  as  the  sea  breaks  amidst  the 
basaltic  pillars  which  crowd  the  stormy  cavern  of 
the  Hebrides.  The  voice  of  the  alternate  choirs 
of  singing  boys  swung  back  and  forward,  as  the 
silver  censer  swung  in  the  hands  of  the  white- 
robed  children.  The  sweet  cloud  of  incense  rose 
in  soft,  fleecy  mists,  full  of  penetrating  sugges¬ 
tions  of  the  East  and  its  perfumed  altars.  The 
knees  of  twenty  generations  had  worn  the  pave¬ 
ment  ;  their  feet  had  hollowed  the  steps  ;  their 
shoulders  had  smoothed  the  columns.  Dead  bish¬ 
ops  and  abbots  lay  under  the  marble  of  the  floor 
in  their  crumbled  vestments ;  dead  warriors,  in 
rusted  armor,  were  stretched  beneath  their  sculp¬ 
tured  effigies.  And  all  at  once  all  the  buried 
multitudes  who  had  ever  worshipped  there  came 
thronging  in  through  the  aisles.  They  choked 
every  space,  they  swarmed  into  all  the  chapels, 
they  hung  in  clusters  over  the  parapets  of  the 
galleries,  they  clung  to  the  images  in  every 
niche,  and  still  tne  vast  throng  kept  flowing  and 
flowing  in,  until  the  living  were  lost  in  the  rush 
of  the  returning  dead  who  had  reclaimed  their 
own.  Then,  as  his  dream  becam?  more  fan 


502 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


fcastic,  the  huge  cathedral  itself  seemed  to  change 
into  the  wreck  of  some  mighty  antediluviar. 
vertebrate ;  its  flying-buttresses  arched  round 
like  ribs,  its  piers  shaped  themselves  into  limbs, 
and  the  sound  of  the  organ-blast  changed  to' 
the  wind  whistling  through  its  thousand-jointeif 
skeleton. 

And  presently  the  sound  lulled,  and  softened 
and  softened,  until  it  was  as  the  murmur  of  a 
distant  swarm  of  bees.  A  procession  of  monks 
wound  along  through  an  old  street,  chanting,  as 
they  walked.  In  his  dream  he  glided  in  among 
them  and  bore  his  part  in  the  burden  of  their 
song.  He  entered  with  the  long  train  under  a 
low  arch,  and  presently  he  was  kneeling  in  a  nar¬ 
row  cell  before  an  image  of  the  Blessed  Maiden 
holding  the  Divine  Child  in  her  arms,  and  his  lips 
seemed  to  whisper,— 

Sancta  Maria ,  ora  pro  nobis  ! 

He  turned  to  the  crucifix,  and,  prostrating  him¬ 
self  before  the  spare,  agonizing  shape  of  the  Holy 
Sufferer,  fell  into  a  long  passion  of  tears  and 
broken  prayers.  He  rose  and  flung  himself,  worn- 
out,  upon  his  hard  pallet,  and,  seeming  to  slum¬ 
ber,  dreamed  again  within  his  dream.  Once  more 
in  the  vast  cathedral,  with  throngs  of  the  living 
choking  its  aisles,  amidst  jubilant  peals  from  the 
cavernous  depths  of  the  great  organ,  and  choral 
melodies  ringing  from  the  fluty  throats  of  the 
singing  boys.  A  day  of  great  rejoicings,  —  for 


ELSIE  VENEER. 


503 


*  prelate  was  to  be  consecrated,  and  the  bones  of 
the  mighty  skeleton-minster  were  shaking  with 
anthems,  as  if  there  were  life  of  its  own  within 
its  buttressed  ribs.  He  looked  down  at  his  feet; 
the  folds  of  the  sacred  robe  were  flowing  about 
them :  he  put  his  hand  to  his  head ;  it  was 
crowned  with  the  holy  mitre.  A  long  sigh,  as 
of  perfect  content  in  the  consummation  of  all  his 
earthly  hopes,  breathed  through  the  dreamer’s 
lips,  and  shaped  itself,  as  it  escaped,  into  the 
blissful  murmur,  — 

Ego  sum  Episcopus  ! 

One  grinning  gargoyle  looked  in  from  beneath 
the  roof  through  an  opening  in  a  stained  window. 
It  was  the  face  of  a  mocking  fiend,  such  as  the 
old  builders  loved  to  place  under  the  eaves  to 
spout  the  rain  through  their  open  mouths.  It 
looked  at  him,  as  he  sat  in  his  mitred  chair, 
with  its  hideous  grin  growing  broader  and 
broader,  until  it  laughed  out  aloud,  —  such  a 
hard,  stony,  mocking  laugh,  that  he  awoke  out 
of  his  second  dream  through  his  first  into  his 
common  consciousness,  and  shivered,  as  he 
turned  to  the  two  yellow  sermons  which  he  was 
to  pick  over  and  weed  of  the  little  thought  they 
flight  contain,  for  the  next  day’s  service. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather  was  too 
much  taken  up  with  his  own  bodily  and  spirit¬ 
ual  condition  to  be  deeply  mindful  of  others. 
Ho  carried  the  note  requesting  the  prayers  of  the 


D04 


ELSIE  VENNER. 

congregation  in  his  pocket  all  clay ;  and  the  sotn 
in  distress,  which  a  single  tender  petition  might 
have  soothed,  and  perhaps  have  saved  from  de¬ 
spair  or  fatal  error,  found  no  voice  in  the  temple 
to  plead  for  it  before  the  Throne  of  Mercy  I 


ELSIE  TENNER 


505 


CHAPTER  XXYHI. 

THE  SECRET  IS  WHISPERED. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather’s  con- 
£  legation  was  not  large,  but  select.  The  lines 
cf  social  cleavage  run  through  religious  creeds 
as  if  they  were  of  a  piece  with  position  and 
fortune.  It  is  expected  of  persons  of  a  certain 
breeding,  in  some  parts  of  New  England,  that 
they  shall  be  either  Episcopalians  or  Unitarians. 
The  mansion-house  gentry  of  Rockland  were 
pretty  fairly  divided  between  the  little  chapel 
with  the  stained  window  and  the  trained  rector, 
and  the  meeting-house  where  the  Reverend  Mr. 
Fairweather  officiated. 

It  was  in  the  latter  that  Dudley  Venner  wor¬ 
shipped,  when  he  attended  service  anywhere,— 
which  depended  very  much  on  the  caprice  of 
Elsie.  He  saw  plainly  enough  that  a  generous 
and  liberally  cultivated  nature  might  find  a  ref¬ 
uge  and  congenial  souls  in  either  of  these  two 
peisuasions,  but  he  objected  to  some  points  of 
the  formal  creed  of  the  older  church,  and  espe¬ 
cially  to  the  mechanism  which  renders  it  hard 
to  get  free  from  its  outworn  and  offensive  for* 


506 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


mulae,  —  remembering  how  Archbishop  Tillotson 
wished  in  vain  that  it  could  be  u  well  rid  of  ” 
the  Athanasian  Creed.  This,  and  the  fact  that 
the  meeting-house  was  nearer  than  the  chapel 
determined  him,  when  the  new  rector,  who  waa 
not  quite  up  to  his  mark  in  education,  was 
appointed,  to  take  a  pew  in  the  “  liberal  ”  wor¬ 
shippers’  edifice. 

Elsie  was  very  uncertain  in  her  feeling  about 
going  to  church.  In  summer,  she  loved  rather 
to  stroll  over  The  Mountain,  on  Sundays.  There 
was  even  a  story,  that  she  had  one  of  the  caves 
before  mentioned  fitted  up  as  an  oratory,  and 
that  she  had  her  own  wild  way  of  worshipping 
the  God  whom  she  sought  in  the  dark  chasms 
of  the  dreaded  cliffs.  Mere  fables,  doubtless ; 
but  they  showed  the  common  belief,  that  Elsie, 
with  all  her  strange  and  dangerous  elements  of 
character,  had  yet  strong  religious  feeling  mingled 
with  them.  The  hymn-book  which  Dick  had 
found,  in  his  midnight  invasion  of  her  chamber, 
opened  to  favorite  hymns,  especially  some  of  the 
Methodist  and  Quietist  character.  Many  had 
noticed,  that  certain  tunes,  as  sung  by  the  choir, 
seemed  to  impress  her  deeply ;  and  some  said, 
that  at  such  times  her  whole  expression  would 
change,  and  her  stormy  look  would  soften  so  as 
to  remind  them  of  her  poor,  sweet  mother. 

On  the  Sunday  morning  after  the  talk  recorded 
til  the  last  chapter,  Elsie  made  herself  ready  tc 
go  to  meeting.  She  was  dressed  much  as  usua. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


507 


excepting  that  she  wore  a  thick  veil,  turned  aside, 
but  ready  to  conceal  her  features.  It  was  natu¬ 
ral  enough  that  she  should  not  wish  to  be  looked 
in  the  face  by  curious  persons  who  would  be  star¬ 
ing  to  see  what  effect  the  occurrence  of  the  past 
week  had  had  on  her  spirits.  Her  father  attended 
her  willingly:  and  they  took  their  seats  in  the 
pew,  somewhat  to  the  surprise  of  many,  who  had 
hardly  expected  to  see  them,  after  so  humiliating 
a  family  development  as  the  attempted  crime  of 
their  kinsman  had  just  been  furnishing  for  the 
astonishment  of  the  public. 

The  Reverend  Mr.  Fairweather  was  now  in 
his  coldest  mood.  He  had  passed  through  the 
period  of  feverish  excitement  which  marks  a 
change  of  religious  opinion.  At  first,  when  he 
had  begun  to  doubt  his  own  theological  posi¬ 
tions,  he  had  defended  them  against  himself  with 
more  ingenuity  and  interest,  perhaps,  than  he 
could  have  done  against  another;  because  men 
rarely  take  the  trouble  to  understand  anybody’s 
difficulties  in  a  question  but  their  own.  After 
this,  as  he  began  to  draw  off  from  different  points 
of  his  old  belief,  the  cautious  disentangling  of 
himself  from  one  mesh  after  another  gave  sharp¬ 
ness  to  his  intellect,  and  the  tremulous  eagerness 
with  which  he  seized  upon  the  doctrine  which, 
piece  by  piece,  under  various  pretexts  and  with 
various  disguises,  he  was  appropriating,  gave  in¬ 
terest  and  something  like  passion  to  his  words. 
But  when  he  had  gradually  accustomed  his  people 


508 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


to  his  new  phraseology,  and  was  really  adjust¬ 
ing  his  sermons  and  his  service  to  disguise  his 
thoughts,  he  lost  at  once  all  his  intellectual  acute¬ 
ness  and  all  his  spiritual  fervor. 

Elsie  sat  quietly  through  the  first  part  of  the 
service,  which  was  conducted  in  the  cold,  me¬ 
chanical  way  to  be  expected.  Her  face  was  hid¬ 
den  by  her  veil ;  but  her  father  knew  her  state  of 
feeling,  as  well  by  her  movements  and  attitudes 
as  by  the  expression  of  her  features.  The  hymn 
had  been  sung,  the  short  prayer  offered,  the  Bible 
read,  and  the  long  prayer  was  about  to  begin. 
This  was  the  time  at  which  the  “  notes  ”  of  any 
who  were  in  affliction  from  loss  of  friends,  the 
sick  who  were  doubtful  of  recovery,  those  who 
had  cause  to  be  grateful  for  preservation  of  life 
or  other  signal  blessing,  were  wont  to  be  read. 

Just  then  it  was  that  Dudley  Venner  noticed 
that  his  daughter  was  trembling,  —  a  thing  so 
rare,  so  unaccountable,  indeed,  under  the  circum¬ 
stances,  that  he  watched  her  closely,  and  began 
to  fear  that  some  nervous  paroxysm,  or  other 
malady,  might  have  just  begun  to  show  itself  in 
this  way  upon  her. 

The  minister  had  in  his  pocket  two  notes. 
One,  in  the  handwriting  of  Deacon  Soper,  was 
from  a  member  of  this  congregation,  returning 
thanks  for  his  preservation  through  a  season  of 
great  peril,  —  supposed  to  be  the  exposure  which 
he  had  shared  with  others,  when  standing  in  the 
circle  around  Dick  Venner.  The  other  w*s  the 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


anonymous  one,  in  a  female  hand,  which  he  had 
received  the  evening  before.  He  forgot  them 
both.  His  thoughts  were  altogether  too  much 
taken  up  with  more  important  matters.  He 
prayed  through  all  the  frozen  petitions  of  his  ex¬ 
purgated  form  of  supplication,  and  not  a  single 
heait  was  soothed  or  lifted,  or  reminded  that  its 
sorrows  were  struggling  their  way  up  to  heaven, 
borne  on  the  breath  from  a  human  soul  that  was 
warm  with  love. 

The  people  sat  down  as  if  relieved  when  the 
dreary  prayer  was  finished.  Elsie  alone  remained 
standing  until  her  father  touched  her.  Then  she 
sat  down,  lifted  her  veil,  and  looked  at  him  with 
a  blank,  sad  look,  as  if  she  had  suffered  some 
pain  or  wrong,  but  could  not  give  any  name  or 
expression  to  her  vague  trouble.  She  did  not 
tremble  any  longer,  but  remained  ominously  still, 
as  if  she  had  been  frozen  where  she  sat. 

- Can  a  man  love  his  own  soul  too  well  ? 

Who,  on  the  whole,  constitute  the  nobler  class 
of  human  beings?  those  who  have  lived  mainly 
30  make  sure  of  their  own  personal  welfare  in 
another  and  future  condition  of  existence,  or  they 
who  have  worked  with  all  their  might  for  their 
race,  for  their  country,  for  the  advancement  of  the 
kingdom  of  God,  and  left  all  personal  arrange¬ 
ments  concerning  themselves  to  the  sole  charge 
of  Him  who  made  them  and  is  responsible  to 
Himself  for  their  safe-keeping?  Is  an  ancho¬ 
rite  who  has  worn  the  stone  floor  of  his  cell  into 


510 


ELSIE  VENNER 


basins  with  his  lmees  bent  in  prayer,  more  accept* 
able  than  the  soldier  who  gives  his  life  for  the 
maintenance  of  any  sacred  right  or  truth,  with¬ 
out  thinking  what  will  specially  become  of  him 
in  a  world  where  there  are  two  or  three  million 
colonists  a  month,  from  this  one  planet,  to  be 
cared  for  ?  These  are  grave  questions,  which 
must  suggest  themselves  to  those  who  know 
that  there  are  many  profoundly  selfish  persons 
who  are  sincerely  devout  and  perpetually  occu¬ 
pied  with  their  own  future,  while  there  are  others 
who  are  perfectly  ready  to  sacrifice  themselves 
for  any  worthy  object  in  this  world,  but  are  really 
too  little  occupied  with  their  exclusive  personality 
to  think  so  much  as  many  do  about  what  is  to 
become  of  them  in  another. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather  did  not, 
most  certainly,  belong  to  this  latter  class.  There 
are  several  kinds  of  believers,  whose  history  we 
find  among  the  early  converts  to  Christianity. 

There  was  the  magistrate,  whose  social  position 
was  such  that  he  preferred  a  private  interview  in 
the  evening  with  the  Teacher  to  following  him 
with  the  street-crowd.  He  had  seen  extraordi¬ 
nary  facts  which  had  satisfied  him  that  the  young 
Galilean  had  a  divine  commission.  But  still  he 
fross-questioned  the  Teacher  himself.  lie  was 
uot  ready  to  accept  statements  without  explana 
tion.  That  was  the  right  kind  of  man.  See  how 
be  stood  up  for  the  legal  rights  of  his  Master 
when  the  people  were  for  laying  hands  on  liim ! 


ELSIE  VENNEli.  511 

And  again,  there  was  the  government  official, 
intrusted  with  public  money,  which,  in  those 
days,  implied  that  he  was  supposed  to  be  honest. 
A  single  look  of  that  heavenly  countenance,  and 
two  words  of  gentle  command,  were  enough  for 
him.  Neither  of  thc^e  men,  the  early  disciple 
nor  the  evangelist,  seems  to  have  been  thinking 
primarily  about  his  own  personal  safety. 

But  now  look  at  the  poor,  miserable  turnkey, 
whose  occupation  shows  what  he  was  like  to  be, 
and  who  had  just  been  thrusting  two  respectable 
strangers,  taken  from  the  hands  of  a  mob,  covered 
with  stripes  and  stripped  of  clothing,  into  the 
inner  prison,  and  making  their  feet  fast  in  the 
stocks.  His  thought,  in  the  moment  of  terror, 
is  for  himself:  first,  suicide;  then,  what  he  shall 
do,  —  not  to  save  his  household,  —  not  to  fulfil 
his  duty  to  his  office,  —  not  to  repair  the  outrage 
he  has  been  committing,  —  but  to  secure  his  own 
personal  safety.  Truly,  character  shows  itself  as 
much  in  a  man’s  way  of  becoming  a  Christian 
as  in  any  other! 

- Elsie  sat,  statue-like,  through  the  sermon. 

It  would  not  be  fair  to  the  reader  to  give  an  ab¬ 
stract  of  that.  When  a  man  who  has  been  bred 
to  free  thought  and  free  speech  suddenly  finds 
himself  stepping  about,  like  a  dancer  amidst  his 
eggs,  among  the  old  addled  majority-votes  which 
he  must  not  tread  upon,  he  is  a  spectacle  for 
men  and  angels.  Submission  to  intellectuai  prec¬ 
edent  and  authority  does  very  well  for  those  who 


512 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


have  been  bred  to  it ;  we  know  that  the  under* 
ground  courses  of  their  minds  are  laid  in  the  Ro¬ 
man  cement  of  tradition,  and  that  stately  and 
Bplendid  structures  may  be  reared  on  such  a 
foundation.  But  to  see  one  laying  a  platform 
over  heretical  quicksands,  thirty  or  forty  or  fifty 
years  deep,  and  then  beginning  to  build  upon  it, 
is  a  sorry  sight.  A  new  convert  from  the  re¬ 
formed  to  the  ancient  faith  may  be  very  strong 
in  the  arms,  but  he  will  always  have  weak  legs 
and  shaky  knees.  He  may  use  his  hands  well, 
and  hit  hard  with  his  fists,  but  he  will  never 
stand  on  his  legs  in  the  way  the  man  does  who 
inherits  his  belief. 

The  services  were  over  at  last,  and  Dudley 
Venner  and  his  daughter  walked  home  together 
in  silence.  He  always  respected  her  moods,  and 
saw  clearly  enough  that  some  inward  trouble  was 
weighing  upon  her.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
said  in  such  cases,  for  Elsie  could  never  talk  of 
her  griefs.  An  hour,  or  a  day,  or  a  week  of 
brooding,  with  perhaps  a  sudden  flash  of  vio¬ 
lence  :  this  was  the  way  in  which  the  impressions 
which  make  other  women  weep,  and  tell  their 
griefs  by  word  or  letter,  showed  their  effects  in 
her  mind  and  acis. 

She  wandered  off  up  into  the  remoter  parts  of 
The  Mountain,  that  day,  after  their  return.  No 
me  saw  just  where  she  went,  —  indeed,  no  one 
knew  its  forest-recesses  and  rocky  fastnesses  ai 
ehe  did.  She  was  gone  until  late  at  night ;  anC 


51b 


'7xuU^  / 


ELSIE  VENISTER. 

when  Old  Sophy,  who  had  watched  for  her,  bound 
np  her  long  hair  for  her  sleep,  ii  was  damp  with 
the  cold  dews. 

The  old  black  woman  looked  at  her  without 
Epeaking,  but  questioning  her  with  every  feature 
as  to  the  sorrow  that  was  wemhiim  on  her. 

o  o 

Suddenly  she  turned  to  Old  Sophy. 

“  You  want  to  know  what  there  is  troubling 
me,”  she  said.  “  Nobody  loves  me.  I  cannot 
love  anybody.  What  is  love,  Sophy  ?  ” 

“  It’s  what  poor  OP  Sophy’s  got  for  her  Elsie,” 
the  old  woman  answered.  “Tell  me,  darlin’, — 

don’  you  love  somebody  ?  —  don’  you  love - ? 

you  know,  —  oh,  tell  me,  darlin’,  don’  you  love  to 
see  the  gen’l’man  that  keeps  up  at  the  school 
where  you  go  ?  They  say  he’s  the  pooticst  gen- 
Tman  that  was  ever  in  the  town  here.  Don’  be 
’fraid  of  poor  OP  Sophy,  darlin’,  —  she  loved  a 
man  once,  —  see  here  !  Oh,  I’ve  showed  you  this 
often  enough !  ” 

She  took  from  her  pocket  a  half  of  one  of  the 
old  Spanish  silver  coins,  such  as  were  current  in 
the  earlier  part  of  this  century.  The  other  half 
of  it  had  been  lying  in  the  deep  sea-sand  for  more 
than  fifty  years. 

Elsie  looked  her  in  the  face,  but  did  not  answer 
in  words.  What  strange  intelligence  was  that 
which  passed  between  them  through  the  diamond 
eyes  and  the  little  beady  black  ones  ?  —  what 
aubtile  intercommunication,  penetrating  so  much 
deeper  than  articulate  speech  ?  This  was  tha 

S3 


514 


ELSIE  VENNER  , 


nearest  approach  to  sympathetic  relations  that 
Elsie  ever  had  :  a  kind  of  dumb  intercourse  of 
feeling,  such  as  one  sees  in  the  eyes  of  brute 
mothers  looking  on  their  young.  But,  subtile  as 
it  was,  it  was  narrow  and  individual ;  whereas  an 
emotion  which  can  shape  itself  in  language  opens 
the  gate  for  itself  into  the  great  community  ot 
human  affections ;  for  every  word  we  speak  u 
the  medal  of  a  dead  thought  or  feeling,  struck  in 
the  die  of  some  human  experience,  worn  smooth 
by  innumerable  contacts,  and  always  transferred 
warm  from  one  to  another.  By  words  we  share 
the  common  consciousness  of  the  race,  which  has 
shaped  itself  in  these  symbols.  By  music  we 
reach  those  special  states  of  consciousness  which, 
being  without  form ,  cannot  be  shaped  with  the 
mosaics  of  the  vocabulary.  The  language  of  the 
eyes  runs  deeper  into  the  personal  nature,  but  it 
is  purely  individual,  and  perishes  in  the  expres¬ 
sion.  If  we  consider  them  all  as  growing  out  of 
the  consciousness  as  their  root,  language  is  the 
leaf,  music  is  the  flower ;  but  when  the  eyes  meet 
and  search  each  other,  it  is  the  uncovering  of  the 
blanched  stem  through  which  the  whole  life  runs, 
but  which  has  never  taken  color  or  form  from  the 
Bunlight. 

For  three  days  Elsie  did  not  return  to  the 
school.  Much  of  the  time  she  was  among  the 
woods  and  rocks.  The  season  was  now  begin 
aing  to  wane,  and  the  forest  to  put  on  its  autum 
flal  glory.  The  dreamy  haze  was  beginning  to 


ELSIE  VENNER.  515 

ioften  Inc  landscape,  and  the  most  delicious  days 
of  the  year  were  lending  their  attraction  to  the 
scenery  of  The  Mountain.  It  was  not  very  sin¬ 
gular  that  Elsie  should  be  lingering  in  her  old 
haunts,  from  which  the  change  of  season  must 
soon  drive  her.  But  Old  Sophy  saw  clearly 
enough  that  some  internal  conflict  was  going 
on,  and  knew  very  well  that  it  must  have  its 
own  way  and  work  itself  out  as  it  best  could. 
As  much  as  looks  could  tell  Elsie  had  told  her. 
She  had  said  in  words,  to  be  sure,  that  she  could 
not  love.  Something  warped  and  thwarted  the 
emotion  which  would  have  been  love  in  another, 
no  doubt;  but  that  such  an  emotion  was  striving 
with  her  against  all  malign  influences  which  in¬ 
terfered  with  it  the  old  woman  had  a  perfect  cer¬ 
tainty  in  her  own  mind. 

Everybody  who  has  observed  the  working  ot 
emotions  in  persons  of  various  temperaments 
knows  well  enough  that  they  have  periods  of 
incubation ,  which  differ  with  the  individual,  and 
with  the  particular  cause  and  degree  of  excite¬ 
ment,  yet  evidently  go  through  a  strictly  self¬ 
limited  series  of  evolutions,  at  the  end  of  which, 
their  result  —  an  act  of  violence,  a  paroxysm  of 
tears,  a  gradual  subsidence  into  repose,  or  what¬ 
ever  it  may  be  — declares  itself,  like  the  last  stage 
of  an  attack  of  fever  and  ague.  No  one  can  ob¬ 
serve  children  without  noticing  that  there  is  a 
personal  equation ,  to  use  the  astronomer’s  lan 
guage,  in  their  tempers,  so  that  one  sulks  an  horn 


516 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


over  an  offence  which  makes  another  a  fury  foi 
five  minutes,  and  leaves  him  or  her  an  angel 
when  it  is  over. 

At  the  end  of  three  days,  Elsie  braided  her 
long,  glossy,  black  hair,  and  shot  a  golden  arrow 
through  it.  She  dressed  herself  with  more  than 
usual  care,  and  came  down  in  the  morning  superb 
in  her  stormy  beauty.  The  brooding  paroxysm 
was  over,  or  at  least  her  passion  had  changed  its 
phase.  Her  father  saw  it  with  great  relief;  he 
had  always  many  fears  for  her  in  her  hours  and 
days  of  gloom,  but,  for  reasons  before  assigned, 
had  felt  that  she  must  be  trusted  to  herself,  with¬ 
out  appealing  to  actual  restraint,  or  any  other 
supervision  than  such  as  Old  Sophy  could  exer* 
cise  without  offence. 

She  went  off  at  the  accustomed  hour  to  the 
school.  All  the  girls  had  their  eyes  on  her.  None 
so  keen  as  these  young  misses  to  know  an  inward 
movement  by  an  outward  sign  of  adornment :  if 
they  have  not  as  many  signals  as  the  ships  that 
sail  the  great  seas,  there  is  not  an  end  of  ribbon 
or  a  turn  of  a  ringlet  which  is  not  a  hieroglyphic 
with  a  hidden  meaning  to  these  little  cruisers  over 
the  ocean  of  sentiment. 

The  girls  all  looked  at  Elsie  with  a  new 
thought;  for  she  was  more  sumptuously  arrayed 
than  perhaps  ever  before  at  the  school ;  and  they 
said  to  themselves  that  she  had  come  meaning  to 
draw  the  young  master’s  eyes  upon  her.  That 
Was  it;  what  else  could  it  be?  The  beautiful 


ELSIE  VENTSTER. 


517 


sold  girl  with  the  diamond  eyes  meant  to  dazzle 
the  handsome  young  gentleman.  He  would  be 
afraid  to  love  her  ;  it  couldn’t  be  true,  that  which 
some  people  had  said  in  the  village ;  she  wasn’t 
the  kind  of  young  lady  to  make  Mr.  Langdon 
happy.  Those  dark  people  are  never  safe:  so 
one  of  the  young  blondes  said  to  herself.  Elsie 
was  not  literary  enough  for  such  a  scholar  :  so 
thought  Miss  Charlotte  Ann  Wood,  the  young 
poetess.  She  couldn’t  have  a  good  temper,  with 
those  scowling  eyebrows :  this  was  the  opinion 
of  several  broad-faced,  smiling  girls,  who  thought, 
each  in  her  own  snug  little  mental  sanctum ,  that, 
if,  etc.,  etc.,  she  could  make  him  so  happy ! 

Elsie  had  none  of  the  still,  wicked  light  in  her 
eyes,  that  morning.  She  looked  gentle,  but 
dreamy  ;  played  with  her  books ;  did  not  trouble 
herself  with  any  of  the  exercises,  —  which  in  it¬ 
self  was  not  very  remarkable,  as  she  was  always 
allowed,  under  some  pretext  or  other,  to  have  her 
own  way. 

The  school-hours  were  over  at  length.  The 
girls  went  out,  but  she  lingered  to  the  last.  She 
then  came  up  to  Mr.  Bernard,  with  a  book  in  her 
hand,  as  if  to  ask  a  question. 

w  Will  you  walk  towards  my  home  with  me  to¬ 
day  ?  ”  she  said,  in  a  very  low  voice,  little  more 
than  a  whisper. 

Mr.  Bernard  was  startled  by  the  request,  put  in 
such  a  way.  He  had  a  presentiment  of  some 
painful  scene  or  other.  But  there  was  nothin? 


618 


ELSIE  VEXNER. 


to  be  done  but  to  assure  her  that  it  would  give 
him  great  pleasure. 

So  they  walked  along  together  on  their  way 
toward  the  Dudley  mansion. 

“  I  have  no  friend,”  Elsie  said,  all  at  once. 
u  Nothing  loves  me  but  one  old  woman.  I  can¬ 
not  love  anybody.  They  tell  me  there  is  some¬ 
thing  in  my  eyes  that  draws  people  to  me  and 
makes  them  faint.  Look  into  them,  will  you  ?  ” 

She  turned  her  face  toward  him.  It  was  very 
pale,  and  the  diamond  eyes  were  glittering  with 
a  film,  such  as  beneath  other  lids  would  have 
rounded  into  a  tear. 

“  Beautiful  eyes,  Elsie,”  he  said,  —  “  sometimes 
very  piercing,  —  but  soft  now,  and  looking  as  if 
there  were  something  beneath  them  that  friend¬ 
ship  might  draw  out.  I  am  your  friend,  Elsie. 
Tell  me  what  I  can  do  to  render  your  life  hap¬ 
pier.” 

“  Love  me!  ”  said  Elsie  Venner. 

What  shall  a  man  do,  when  a  woman  makes 
such  a  demand,  involving  such  an  avowal  ?  It 
was  the  tenderest,  cruellest,  humblest  moment  of 
Mr.  Bernard’s  life.  He  turned  pale,  he  trembled 
almost,  as  if  he  had  been  a  woman  listening  to 
her  lover’s  declaration. 

“  Elsie,”  he  said,  presently,  “  I  so  long  to  be 
of  some  use  to  you,  to  have  your  confidence  and 
sympathy,  that  I  must  not  let  you  say  or  dc 
anything  to  put  us  in  false  relations.  I  do  love 
you,  Elsie,  as  a  suffering  sister  with  sorrows  o 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


519 


her  own,  —  as  one  whom  I  would  save  at  the 
risk  of  my  happiness  and  life,  —  as  one  who 
needs  a  true  friend  more  than  any  of  all  the 
young  girls  I  have  known.  More  than  this  yon 
would  not  ask  me  to  say.  You  have  been 
through  excitement  and  trouble  lately,  and  it 
has  made  you  feel  such  a  need  more  than  ever. 
Give  me  your  hand,  dear  Elsie,  and  trust  me  that 
I  will  be  as  true  a  friend  to  you  as  if  we  were 
children  of  the  same  mother.,, 

Elsie  gave  him  her  hand  mechanically.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  a  cold  aura  shot  from  it 
along  his  arm  and  chilled  the  blood  running 
through  his  heart.  He  pressed  it  gently,  looked 
at  her  with  a  face  full  of  grave  kindness  and 
sad  interest,  then  softly  relinquished  it. 

It  was  all  over  with  poor  Elsie.  They  walked 

almost  in  silence  the  rest  of  the  way.  Mr.  Ber- 

* 

nard  left  her  at  the  gate  of  the  mansion-house, 
and  returned  with  sad  forebodings.  Elsie  went 
at  once  to  her  own  room,  and  did  not  come  from 
it  at  the  usual  hours.  At  last  Old  Sophy  be¬ 
gan  to  be  alarmed  about  her,  went  to  her  apart¬ 
ment,  and,  finding  the  door  unlocked,  entered 
cautiously.  She  found  Elsie  lying  on  her  bed, 
her  brows  strongly  contracted,  her  eyes  dull,  her 
whole  look  that  of  great  suffering.  Her  first 
tnought  was  that  she  had  been  doing  herself  a 
larm  by  some  deadly  means  or  other.  But 
Elsie  saw  her  fear,  and  reassured  her. 

“  No,”  she  said,  “  there  is  nothing  wrong,  such 


520 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


as  you  are  thinking  of;  I  am  not  dying.  You 
may  send  for  the  Doctor ;  perhaps  he  can  take 
the  pain  from  my  head.  That  is  all  I  want  him 
to  do.  There  is  no  use  in  the  pain,  that  I  know 
of;  if  he  can  stop  it,  let  him.’, 

So  they  sent  for  the  old  Doctor.  It  was  not 
long  before  the  solid  trot  of  Caustic,  the  old  bay 
horse,  and  the  crashing  of  the  gravel  under  the 
wheels,  gave  notice  that  the  physician  was  driv¬ 
ing  up  the  avenue. 

The  old  Doctor  was  a  model  for  visiting  prac¬ 
titioners.  He  always  came  into  the  sick-room 
with  a  quiet,  cheerful  look,  as  if  he  had  a  con¬ 
sciousness  that  he  was  bringing  some  sure  relief 
with  him.  The  way  a  patient  snatches  his  first 
look  at  his  doctor’s  face,  to  see  whether  he  is 
doomed,  whether  he  is  reprieved,  whether  he  is 
unconditionally  pardoned,  has  really  something 
terrible  about  it.  It  is  only  to  be  met  by  an  im¬ 
perturbable  mask  of  serenity,  proof  against  any¬ 
thing  and  everything  in  a  patient’s  aspect.  The 
physician  whose  face  reflects  his  patient’s  condi¬ 
tion  like  a  mirror  may  do  well  enough  to  exam¬ 
ine  people  for  a  life-insurance  office,  but  does  not 
belong  to  the  sich  -room.  The  old  Doctor  did  not 
keep  people  waiting  in  dread  suspense,  while  he 
stayed  talking  about  the  case, — the  patient  all  the 
time  thinking  that  he  and  the  friends  are  discuss¬ 
ing  some  alarming  symptom  or  formidable  opera¬ 
tion  which  he  himself  is  by-and-by  to  hear  of. 

He  was  in  Elsie’s  room  almost  before  sha 


ELSIE  VEMSTER. 


521 


knew  he  was  in  the  house.  He  came  to  her 
bedside  in  such  a  natural,  quiet  way,  that  it 
seemed  as  if  he  were  only  a  friend  who  had 
dropped  in  for  a  moment  to  say  a  pleasant 
word.  Yet  he  was  very  uneasy  about  Elsie 
until  he  had  seen  her ;  he  never  knew  what 
might  happen  to  her  or  those  about  her,  and 
came  prepared  for  the  worst. 

“  Sick,  my  child  ?  ”  he  said,  in  a  very  soft, 
low  voice. 

Elsie  nodded,  without  speaking. 

The  Doctor  took  her  hand,  —  whether  with 
professional  views,  or  only  in  a  friendly  way,  it 
would  have  been  hard  to  tell.  So  he  sat  a  few 
minutes,  looking  at  her  all  the  time  with  a  kind 
of  fatherly  interest,  but  with  it  all  noting  how 
she  lay,  how  she  breathed,  her  color,  her  expres¬ 
sion,  all  that  teaches  the  practised  eye  so  much 
without  a  single  question  being  asked.  He  saw 
she  was  in  suffering,  and  said  presently, — 

“  You  have  pain  somewhere ;  where  is  it  ?  ” 

She  put  her  hand  to  her  head. 

As  she  was  not  disposed  to  talk,  he  watched 
her  for  a  while,  questioned  Old  Sophy  shrewdly 
a  few  minutes,  and  so  made  up  his  mind  as  to 
the  probable  cause  of  disturbance  and  the  proper 
remedies  to  be  used. 

Some  very  silly  people  thought  the  old  Doc¬ 
tor  did  not  believe  in  medicine,  because  he  gave 
css  than  certain  pomr  half-taught  creatures  in 

the  smaller  neighboring  towns,  who  took  advan* 


b  22 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


tage  of  people’s  sickness  to  disgust  and  disturb 
them  with  all  manner  of  ill-smelling  and  ill-be¬ 
having  drugs.  In  truth,  he  hated  to  give  any* 
thing  noxious  or  loathsome  to  those  who  were 
uncomfortable  enough  already,  unless  he  was 
very  sure  it  would  do  good,  —  in  which  case,  he 
never  played  with  drugs,  but  gave  good,  hon¬ 
est,  efficient  doses.  Sometimes  he  lost  a  family 
of  the  more  boorish  sort,  because  they  did  not 
think  they  got  their  money’s  worth  out  of  him, 
unless  they  had  something  more  than  a  taste  of 
everything  he  carried  in  his  saddle-bags. 

He  ordered  some  remedies  which  he  thought 
would  relieve  Elsie,  and  left  her,  saying  he  would 
call  the  next  day,  hoping  to  find  her  better.  But 
the  next  day  came,  and  the  next,  and  still  Elsie 
was  on  her  bed,  —  feverish,  restless,  wakeful,  si¬ 
lent.  At  night  she  tossed  about  and  wandered, 
and  it  became  at  length  apparent  that  there  was 
a  settled  attack,  something  like  what  they  called 
formerly,  a  “  nervous  fever.” 

On  the  fourth  day  she  was  more  restless  than 
common.  One  of  the  women  of  the  house  came 
in  to  help  to  take  care  of  her;  but  she  showed 
an  aversion  to  her  presence. 

w  Send  me  Helen  Darley,”  she  said,  at  last. 

The  old  Doctor  told  them,  that,  if  possible,  they 
a  ust  indulge  this  fancy  of  hers.  The  caprices 
of  sick  people  were  never  to  be  despised,  least 
of  all  of  such  persons  as  Elsie,  when  rendered 
irritable  and  exacting  by  pain  and  weakness* 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


523 


So  a  message  was  sent  to  Mr  Silas  Peckham 
at  the  Apoliinean  Institute,  to  know  if  he  could 
not  spare  Miss  Helen  Darley  for  a  few  days,  if 
required,  to  give  her  attention  to  a  young  lady 
who  attended  his  school  and  who  was  now  lying 
ill, —  no  other  person  than  the  daughter  of  Dudley 
Vernier. 

A  mean  man  never  agrees  to  anything  without 
deliberately  turning  it  over,  so  that  he  may  see 
its  dirty  side,  and,  if  he  can,  sweating  the  coin 
he  pays  for  it.  If  an  archangel  should  offer  to 
save  his  soul  for  sixpence,  he  would  try  to  find 
a  sixpence  with  a  hole  in  it.  A  gentleman  says 
yes  to  a  great  many  things  without  stopping  to 
think :  a  shabby  fellow  is  known  by  his  caution 
in  answering  questions,  for  fear  of  compromising 
his  pocket  or  himself. 

Mr.  Silas  Peckham  looked  very  grave  at  the 
request.  The  dooties  of  Miss  Darley  at  the  In- 
stitoot  were  important,  very  important.  He  paid 
her  large  sums  of  money  for  her  time,  —  more 
than  she  could  expect  to  get  in  any  other  insti- 
tootion  for  the  edoocation  of  female  youth.  A 
deduction  from  her  selary  would  be  necessary,  in 
case  she  should  retire  from  the  sphere  of  her 
looties  for  a  season.  He  should  be  put  to  extry 
expense,  and  have  to  perform  additional  labors 
Vimseif.  He  would  consider  of  the  matter.  If 
any  arrangement  could  be  made,  he  would  send 
Word  to  Squire  Venner’s  folks. 

M  Miss  Darley said  Silas  Peckhami  M  the*  ’b  a 


524 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


message  from  Squire  Venner’s  that  his  daughter 
wants  you  down  at  the  mansion-house  to  see  her. 
She’s  got  a  fever,  so  they  inform  me.  If  it’s  any 
kind  of  ketchin’  fever,  of  course  you  won’t  think 
f  goin’  near  the  mansion-house.  If  Doctor  Kit- 
tredge  says  it’s  safe,  perfec’ly  safe,  1  can’t  objec 
to  your  goin’,  on  sech  conditions  as  seem  to  be 
fair  to  all  concerned.  You  will  give  up  your  pay 
for  the  whole  time  you  are  absent,  —  portions  of 
days  to  be  caounted  as  whole  days.  You  will  be 
charged  with  board  the  same  as  if  you  eat  your 
victuals  with  the  household.  The  victuals  are  of 
no  use  after  they’re  cooked  but  to  be  eat,  and 
your  bein’  away  is  no  savin’  to  our  folks.  I  shall 
charge  you  a  reasonable  compensation  for  the 
demage  to  the  school  by  the  absence  of  a  teacher. 
If  Miss  Crabs  undertakes  any  dooties  belongin’ 
to  your  department  of  instruction,  she  will  look 
to  you  for  sech  pecooniary  considerations  as  you 
may  agree  upon  between  you.  On  these  condi¬ 
tions  I  am  willin’  to  give  my  consent  to  your 
temporary  absence  from  the  post  of  dooty.  I 
will  step  down  to  Doctor  Kittredge’s,  myself, 
and  make  inquiries  as  to  the  natur’  of  the  com¬ 
plaint.” 

Mr.  Peckham  took  up  a  rusty  and  very  narrow* 
brimmed  hat,  which  he  cocked  upon  one  side  of 
his  head,  with  an  air  peculiar  to  the  rural  gentry 
It  was  the  hour  when  the  Doctor  expected  to  be 
in  his  office,  unless  he  had  some  special  call  which 
ktpt  him  from  home. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


525 


He  found  the  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather 
just  taking  leave  of  the  Doctor.  His  hand  was 
on  the  pit  of  his  stomach,  and  his  countenance 
was  expressive  of  inward  uneasiness. 

“  Shake  it  before  using,”  said  the  Doctor ;  “  and 
the  sooner  you  make  up  your  mind  to  speak  right 
out,  the  better  it  wili  be  for  your  digestion.” 

“  Oh,  Mr.  Peckham !  Walk  in,  Mr.  Peekham  ! 
Nobody  sick  up  at  the  school,  I  hope  ?  ” 

“  The  ha'alth  of  the  school  is  fust-rate,”  replied 
Mr.  Peckham.  “  The  sitooation  is  uncommonly 
favorable  to  saloobrity.”  (These  last  words  were 
from  the  Annual  Report  of  the  past  year.)  “  Prov¬ 
idence  has  spared  our  female  youth  in  a  remarka¬ 
ble  measure.  I’ve  come  with  reference  to  another 
consideration.  Doctor  Kittredge,  is  there  any 
ketchin’  complaint  goin’  about  in  the  village  ?  ” 

“  Well,  yes,”  said  the  Doctor,  “  I  should  say 
there  was  something  of  that  sort.  Measles. 
Mumps.  And  Sin,  —  that’s  always  catching.” 

The  old  Doctor’s  eye  twinkled ;  once  in  a  while 
he  had  his  little  touch  of  humor. 

Silas  Peckham  slanted  his  eye  up  suspiciously 
at  the  Doctor,  as  if  he  was  getting  some  kind  of 
advantage  over  him.  That  is  the  way  people 
of  his  constitution  are  apt  to  take  a  bit  of  pleas-* 
an  try. 

u  I  don’t  mean  sech  things,  Doctor ;  I  mean 
fevers.  Is  there  any  ketchin’  fevers  —  bilious,  or 
nervous,  or  typus,  or  whatever  you  call  ’em  —  now 


526 


ELSIE  YENNEE. 


goin’  round  this  village  ?  That’s  what  1  want  to 
ascertain,  if  there’s  no  impropriety.” 

The  old  Doctor  looked  at  Silas  through  ilia 
spectacles. 

u  Hard  and  sour  as  a  green  cider-apple,”  he 
thought  to  himself.  “  No,”  he  said,  —  “I  don’t 
know  any  such  cases.” 

“  What’s  the  matter  with  Elsie  Venner?” 
asked  Silas,  sharply,  as  if  he  expected  to  have 
him  this  time. 

“  A  mild  feverish  attack,  I  should  call  it  in  any¬ 
body  else ;  but  she  has  a  peculiar  constitution, 
and  I  never  feel  so  safe  about  her  as  I  should 
about  most  people.” 

“  Anything  ketchin’  about  it  ?  ”  Silas  asked, 
cunningly. 

“  No,  indeed !  ”  said  the  Doctor,  —  “  catching  ? 
• — no,  —  what  put  that  into  your  head,  Mr.  Peck- 
ham  ?  ” 

“Well,  Doctor,”  the  conscientious  Principal  an¬ 
swered,  “  I  naterally  feel  a  graiit  responsibility,  a 
very  graiiat  responsibility,  for  the  noomerous  and 
lovely  young  ladies  committed  to  my  charge.  It 
has  been  a  question,  whether  one  of  my  assistants 
should  go,  accordin’  to  request,  to  stop  with  Miss 
Venner  for  a  season.  Nothin’  restrains  my  givin 
my  full  and  free  consent  to  her  goin’  but  the  fear  lest 
contagious  maladies  should  be  introdooced  among 
those  lovely  female  youth.  I  shall  abide  by  your 
opinion,  —  I  understan’  you  to  say  distinc’ly,  hei 
complaint  is  not  ketchin’  ?  —  and  urge  upon  Mis# 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


527 


Darley  to  fulfil  her  dooties  to  a  sufferin’  fellow- 
nreature  at  any  cost  to  myself  and  my  establish » 
ment.  We  shall  miss  her  very  much  ;  but  it  is  a 
good  cause,  and  she  shall  go,  —  and  I  shall  trust 
that  Providence  will  enable  us  to  spare  her  with* 
out  permanent  demage  to  the  interests  of  the  In* 
stitootion.” 

Saying  this,  the  excellent  Principal  departed, 
with  his  rusty  narrow-brimmed  hat  leaning  over, 
as  if  it  had  a  six-knot  breeze  abeam,  and  its  gun¬ 
wale  (so  to  speak)  was  dipping  into  his  coat-col¬ 
lar.  He  announced  the  result  of  his  inquiries  to 
Helen,  who  had  received  a  brief  note  in  the  mean 
time  from  a  poor  relation  of  Elsie’s  mother,  then 
at  the  mansion-house,  informing  her  of  the  criti¬ 
cal  situation  of  Elsie  and  of  her  urgent  desire 
that  Helen  should  be  with  her.  She  could  not 
hesitate.  She  blushed  as  she  thought  of  the 
comments  that  might  be  made ;  but  what  were 
such  considerations  in  a  matter  of  life  and  death? 
She  could  not  stop  to  make  terms  with  Silas 
Peckham.  She  must  go.  He  might  fleece  her, 
if  he  would ;  she  would  not  complain,  —  not  even 
to  Bernard,  who,  she  knew,  would  bring  the  Prin¬ 
cipal  to  terms,  if  she  gave  the  least  hint  of  his  in¬ 
tended  extortions. 

So  Helen  made  up  her  bundle  of  clothes  to  be 
sent  after  her,  took  a  booii  or  two  with  her  to  help 
her  pass  the  time,  and  departed  for  the  Dudley 
mansion.  It  was  with  a  great  inward  effort  that 
*he  undertook  the  sisterly  task  which  was  thus 


528 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


forced  upon  her.  She  had  a  kind  of  terror  ol 
Elsie ;  and  the  thought  of  having  charge  of  her 
of  being  alone  with  her,  of  coming  under  the  fuL 
influence  of  those  diamond  eyes,  —  if,  indeed, 
their  light  were  not  dimmed  by  suffering  and 
weariness, —  was  one  she  shrank  from.  But  what 
could  she  do?  It  might  be  a  turning-point  in 
the  life  of  the  poor  girl ;  and  she  must  overcome 
all  her  fears,  all  u  repugnance,  and  go  to  her 
rescue. 

u  Is  Helen  come  ?  ”  said  Elsie,  when  she  heard, 
with  her  fine  sense  quickened  by  the  irritability  of 
sickness,  a  light  footfall  on  the  stair,  with  a  ca¬ 
dence  unlike  that  of  any  inmate  of  the  house. 

“  It’s  a  strange  woman’s  step,”  said  Old  Sophy, 
who,  with  her  exclusive  love  for  Elsie,  was  natu¬ 
rally  disposed  to  jealousy  of  a  new-comer.  u  Let 
Ol’  Sophy  set  at  th’  foot  o’  th’  bed,  if  th’  young 
missis  sets  by  th’  piller,  —  won’  y’,  darlin’  ?  The’ 
’s  nobody  that’s  white  can  love  y’  as  th’  ol’  black 
woman  does  ;  —  don’  sen’  her  away,  now,  there’s 
a  dear  soul !  ” 

Elsie  motioned  her  to  sit  in  the  place  she  had 
pointed  to,  and  Helen  at  that  moment  entered 
Mie  room.  Dudley  Venner  followed  her. 

“  She  is  your  patient,”  he  said,  “  except  while 
the  Doctor  is  here.  She  has  been  longing  to  have 
you  with  her,  and  wc  shall  expect  you  to  make 
her  well  in  a  few  days.” 

So  Helen  Darley  found  herself  established  ill 
the  most  unexpected  manner  as  an  inmate  of  tb* 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


529 


Dudlej  mansion.  She  sat  with  Elsie  most  of  the 
time,  by  day  and  by  night,  soothing  her,  and  try* 
ing  to  enter  into  her  confidence  and  affections,  if 
it  should  prove  that  this  strange  creature  was 
really  capable  of  truly  sympathetic  emotions. 

What  was  this  unexplained  something  which 
came  between  her  soul  and  that  of  every  other 
human  being  with  whom  she  was  in  relations  ? 
Helen  perceived,  or  rather  felt,  that  she  had,  folded 
up  in  the  depths  of  her  being,  a  true  womanly 
nature.  Through  the  cloud  that  darkened  her  as¬ 
pect,  now  and  then  a  ray  would  steal  forth,  which, 
like  the  smile  of  stern  and  solemn  people,  was  all 
the  more  impressive  from  its  contrast  with  the  ex¬ 
pression  she  wore  habitually.  It  might  well  be 
that  pain  and  fatigue  had  changed  her  aspect; 
but,  at  any  rate,  Helen  looked  into  her  eyes  with¬ 
out  that  nervous  agitation  which  their  cold  glitter 
had  produced  on  her  when  they  were  full  of  their 
natural  light.  She  felt  sure  that  her  mother  must 
have  been  a  lovely,  gentle  woman.  There  were 
gleams  of  a  beautiful  nature  shining  through 
gome  ill-defined  medium  which  disturbed  and 
made  them  flicker  and  waver,  as  distant  images 
do  when  seen  through  the  rippling  upward  cur¬ 
rents  of  heated  air.  She  loved,  in  her  own  way, 
the  old  black  woman,  and  seemed  to  keep  up  a 
kind  of  silent  communication  with  her,  as  if  they 
lid  not  require  the  use  of  speech.  She  appeared 
to  be  tranquillized  by  the  presence  of  Helen,  and 
loved  to  have  her  seated  at  the  bedside.  Yet 

84 


&30 


ELSIE  VENNEB. 


something,  whatever  it  was,  prevented  her  from 
opening  her  heart  to  her  kind  companion  ;  and 
even  now  there  were  times  when  she  would  lie 
looking  at  her,  with  such  a  still,  watchful,  almost 
dangerous  expression,  that  Helen  would  sigh,  and 
change  her  place,  as  persons  do  whose  breath 
some  cunning  orator  has  been  sucking  out  of 
them  with  his  spongy  eloquence,  so  that,  when 
he  stops,  they  must  get  some  air  and  stir  about, 
or  they  feel  as  if  they  should  be  half  smothered 
and  palsied. 

It  w7as  too  much  to  keep  guessing  what  was 
the  meaning  of  all  this.  Helen  determined  to  ask 
Old  Sophy  some  questions  which  might  prob¬ 
ably  throw  light  upon  her  doubts.  She  took  the 
opportunity  one  evening  when  Elsie  was  lying 
asleep  and  they  were  both  sitting  at  some  dis¬ 
tance  from  her  bed. 

“  Tell  me,  Sophy,”  she  said,  “  was  Elsie  al¬ 
ways  as  shy  as  she  seems  to  be  now,  in  talking 
with  those  to  whom  she  is  friendly  ?  ” 

“  Alway  jes’  so,  Miss  Darling  ever  sence  she 
was  little  chil’.  When  she  was  five,  six  veai 
old,  she  lisp  some,  —  call  me  Thophy  ;  that  make 
her  kin’  o’  ’shamed,  perhaps :  after  she  grow  up, 
ehe  never  lisp,  but  she  kin’  o’  got  the  way  o’  not 
talkin’  much.  Fac’  is,  she  don’  like  talkin’  a? 
common  gals  do,  ’xcep’  jes’  once  in  a  whLe 
gome  parti c’lar  folks,  —  ’n’  then  not  much.’ 

“  How  old  is  Elsie  ?  ” 
w  Eighteen  year  this  as’  September.” 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


531 


u  How  long  ago  did  her  mother  die  ? 55  Helen 
asked,  with  a  little  trembling  in  her  voice. 

*l  Eighteen  year  ago  this  October,”  said  Old 
Sophy. 

Helen  was  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  she 
whispered,  almost  inaudibly,  —  for  her  voice  ap« 
peared  to  fail  her,  — 

il  What  did  her  mother  die  of,  Sophy?” 

The  old  woman’s  small  eyes  dilated  until  a 
ring  of  white  showed  round  their  beady  cen* 
tres.  She  caught  Helen  by  the  hand  and  clung 
to  it,  as  if  in  fear.  She  looked  round  at  Elsie4 
who  lay  sleeping,  as  if  she  might  be  listening. 
Then  she  drew  Helen  towards  her  and  led  her 
softly  out  of  the  room. 

“’Sh. —  ’sh!”  she  said,  as  soon  as  they  were 
outside  the  door.  “  Don’  never  speak  in  this 
house  ’bout  what  Elsie’s  mother  died  of!”  she 
Baid.  “  Nobody  never  says  nothin’  ’bout  it.  Oh, 
God  has  made  Ugly  Things  wi’  death  in  their 
mouths,  Miss  Darlin’,  an’  He  knows  what  they’re 
for ;  but  my  poor  Elsie !  —  to  have  her  blood 
changed  in  her  before -  It  was  in  July  Mis¬ 

tress  got  her  death,  but  she  liv’  till  three  week 
after  my  poor  Elsie  was  born.” 

She  could  speak  no  more.  She  had  said 
snough.  Helen  remembered  the  stories  she  had 
heard  on  coming  to  the  village,  and  among  them 
ane  referred  to  in  an  early  chapter  of  this  narra¬ 
tive,  All  the  unaccountable  looks  and  taste? 
find  ways  of  Elsie  came  back  to  her  in  the  light 


0c>y^ 


532 


ELSIE  TENNER. 


of  an  ante-natal  impression  which  had  inip.gied 
an  alien  element  in  her  nature.  She  knew  the 
secret  of  the  fascination  which  looked  out  of  her 
cold,  glittering  eyes.  She  knew  the  significance 
of  the  strange  repulsion  which  she  felt  in  he 
own  intimate  consciousness  underlying  the  in* 
explicable  attraction  which  drew  her  towards 
the  young  girl  in  spite  of  this  repugnance.  She 
began  to  look  with  new  feelings  on  the  contra¬ 
dictions  in  her  moral  nature,  —  the  longing  for 
sympathy,  as  shown  by  her  wishing  for  Helen’s 
company,  and  the  impossibility  of  passing  be¬ 
yond  the  cold  circle  of  isolation  within  which 
she  had  her  being.  The  fearful  truth  of  that 
instinctive  feeling  of  hers,  that  there  was  some¬ 
thing  not  human  looking  out  of  Elsie’s  eyes, 
came  upon  her  with  a  sudden  flash  of  penetrat¬ 
ing  conviction.  There  were  two  warring  princi¬ 
ples  in  that  superb  organization  and  proud  soul. 
One  made  her  a  woman,  with  all  a  woman’s 
powers  and  longings.  The  other  chilled  all  the 
currents  of  outlet  for  her  emotions.  It  made  her 
tearless  and  mute,  when  another  woman  would 
have  wept  and  pleaded.  And  it  infused  into 
jier  soul  something  —  it  was  cruel  now  to  cal 
it  malice  —  which  was  still  and  watchful  and 
dangerous,  —  which  waited  its  opportunity,  and 
then  shot  like  an  arrow  from  its  bow  out  of  the 
coil  of  brooding  premeditation.  Even  those  who 
had  never  seen  the  white  scars  on  Dick  Venner’s 
torrist,  or  heard  the  half-told  story  of  her  sup 


ELSIE  .VENNER. 


533 


posed  attempt  to  do  a  graver  mischief,  knew 
well  enough  by  looking  at  her  that  she  was  one 
of  the  creatures  not  to  be  tampered  with,  — 
silent  in  anger  and  swift  in  vengeance. 

Helen  could  not  return  to  the  bedside  at  once 
after  this  communication.  It  was  with  altered 
eyes  that  she  must  look  on  the  poor  girl,  the 
victim  of  such  an  unheard-of  fatality.  All  was 
explained  to  her  now.  But  it  opened  such 
depths  of  solemn  thought  in  her  awakened  con¬ 
sciousness,  that  it  seemed  as  if  the  whole  mys¬ 
tery  of  human  life  were  coming  up  again  before 
her  for  trial  and  judgment.  “  Oh,”  she  thought, 
if,  while  the  will  lies  sealed  in  its  fountain,  it 
may  be  poisoned  at  its  very  source,  so  that  it 
shall  flow  dark  and  deadly  through  its  whole 
course,  who  are  we  that  we  should  judge  om 
fellow-creatures  by  ourselves  ?  ”  Then  came  the 
terrible  question,  how  far  the  elements  them¬ 
selves  are  capable  of  perverting  the  moral  na¬ 
ture  :  if  valor,  and  justice,  and  truth,  the  strength 
of  man  and  the  virtue  of  woman,  may  not  be 
poisoned  out  of  a  race  by  the  food  of  the  Aus¬ 
tralian  in  his  forest,  —  by  the  foul  air  and 
darkness  of  the  Christians  cooped  up  in  the 
M  tenement-houses  ”  close  by  those  who  live  in 
the  palaces  of  the  great  cities  ? 

She  walked  out  into  the  garden,  mst  in  thought 
Upon  these  dark  and  deep  matters.  Presently 
Bhe  heard  a  step  behind  her,  and  Elsie’s  father 
%ame  up  and  joined  her.  Since  his  introduction 


534 


ELSIE  VENNER- 


to  Helen  at  the  distinguished  tea-party  given  by 
the  Widow  Rowens,  and  before  her  coming  to 
sit  with  Elsie,  Mr.  Dudley  Yenner  had  in  the 
most  accidental  way  in  the  world  met  her  on 
several  occasions :  once  after  church,  when  she 
happened  to  be  caught  in  a  slight  showei  and  ho 
insisted  on  holding  his  umbrella  over  her  on  her 
way  home ;  —  once  at  a  small  party  at  one  of  the 
mansion-houses,  where  the  quick-eyed  lady  of  the 
house  had  a  wonderful  knack  of  bringing  people 
together  who  liked  to  see  each  other; — perhaps 
at  other  times  and  places ;  but  of  this  there  is  no 
certain  evidence. 

They  naturally  spoke  of  Elsie,  her  illness,  and 
the  aspect  it  had  taken.  Bnt  Helen  noticed  in 
all  that  Dudley  Yenner  said  about  his  daughter 
a  morbid  sensitiveness,  as  it  seemed  to  her,  an 
aversion  to  saying  much  about  her  physical  con¬ 
dition  or  her  peculiarities,  —  a  wish  to  feel  and 
speak  as  a  parent  should,  and  yet  a  shrinking, 
as  if  there  were  something  about  Elsie  which 
he  could  not  bear  to  dwell  upon.  She  thought 
she  saw  through  all  this,  and  she  could  interpret 
it  al_  charitably.  There  were  circumstances 
about  his  daughter  which  recalled  the  great 
sorrow  of  his  life  ;  it  was  not  strange  that  this 
perpetual  reminder  should  in  some  degree  have 
modified  his  feelings  as  a  father.  But  what  g 
life  he  must  have  been  leading  for  so  many 
years,  with  this  perpetual  source  of  distress 
which  be  could  not  name!  Helen  knew  wel 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


535 


enough,  now,  the  meaning  of  the  sadness  which 
had  left  such  traces  in  his  features  and  tones, 
and  it  made  her  feel  very  kindly  and  compas¬ 
sionate  towards  him. 

Bo  they  walked  over  the  crackling  leaves  in 
the  garden,  between  the  lines  of  box  breathing 
its  fragrance  of  eternity;  —  for  this  is  one  of  the 
odors  which  carry  us  out  of  time  into  the  abysses 
of  the  unbeginning  past ;  if  we  ever  lived  on  an¬ 
other  ball  of  stone  than  this,  it  must  be  that  there 
was  box  growing  on  it.  So  they  walked,  finding 
their  way  softly  to  each  other’s  sorrows  and  sym¬ 
pathies,  each  matching  some  counterpart  to  the 
other’s  experience  of  life,  and  startled  to  see  how 
the  different,  yet  parallel,  lessons  they  had  been 
taught  by  suffering  had  led  them  step  by  step  to 
the  same  serene  acquiescence  in  the  orderings  of 
that  Supreme  Wisdom  which  they  both  devoutly 
recognized. 

Old  Sophy  was  at  the  window  and  saw  them 
walking  up  and  down  the  garden-alleys.  She 
watched  them  as  her  grandfather  the  savage 
watched  the  figures  that  moved  among  the 
trees  when  a  hostile  tribe  was  lurking  about  his 
mountain. 

w  There’ll  be  a  weddin’  in  the  ol’  house,”  she 
Baid,  “  before  there’s  roses  on  them  bushes  ag’in. 
But  it  won’  be  my  poor  Elsie’s  weddin’,  ’n’  Ol’ 
Sophy  won’  be  there.” 

When  Helen  prayed  in  the  silence  of  her  soul 
‘hat  evening,  it  was  not  that  Elsie’s  life  might  be 


536 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


spared.  She  dared  not  ask  that  as  a  favor  of 
Heaven.  What  could  life  be  to  her  but  a  perpet¬ 
ual  anguish,  and  to  those  about  her  an  ever¬ 
present  terror  ?  Might  she  but  be  so  influenced 
by  divine  grace,  that  what  in  her  was  most  truly 
human,  most  purely  woman-like,  should  overcome 
the  dark,  cold,  unmentionable  instinct  which  had 
pervaded  her  being  like  a  subtile  poison  :  that  was 
all  she  could  ask,  and  the  rest  she  left  to  a  highei 
wisdom  and  tenderer  love  than  her  own- 


537 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

THE  WHITE  ASH. 

When  Helen  returned  to  Elsie’s  bedside,  it 
Was  with  a  new  and  still  deeper  feeling  of  sym¬ 
pathy,  such  as  the  story  told  by  Old  Sophy  might 
well  awaken.  She  understood,  as  never  before, 
the  singular  fascination  and  as  singular  repulsion 
which  she  had  long  felt  in  Elsie’s  presence.  It 
had  not  been  without  a  great  effort  that  she  had 
forced  herself  to  become  the  almost  constant  at¬ 
tendant  of  the  sick  girl ;  and  now  she  was  learn¬ 
ing,  but  not  for  the  first  time,  the  blessed  truth 
which  so  many  good  women  have  found  out  for 
themselves,  that  the  hardest  duty  bravely  per¬ 
formed  soon  becomes  a  habit,  and  tends  in  due 
time  to  transform  itself  into  a  pleasure. 

The  old  Doctor  was  beginning  to  look  graver, 
n  spite  of  himself.  The  fever,  if  such  it  was, 
Went  gently  forward,  wasting  the  young  girl’s 
Dowers  of  resistance  from  day  to  day;  yet  she 
showed  no  disposition  to  take  nourishment,  and 
seemed  literally  to  be  living  on  air.  It  was  re¬ 
markable  that  with  all  this  her  look  was  almost 
natural,  and  her  features  were  hardly  sharpened 


533 


ELSIE  YENNElt 


bo  as  to  suggest  that  her  life  was  burning  away 
He  did  not  like  this,  nor  various  other  unobtru 
sive  signs  of  danger  which  his  practised  eye  de 
tected.  A  very  small  matter  might  turn  the 
balance  which  held  life  and  death  poised  against 
each  other.  He  surrounded  her  with  precau 
lions,  that  Nature  might  have  every  opportunity 
of  cunningly  shifting  the  weights  from  the  scale 
of  death  to  the  scale  of  life,  as  she  will  often  do 
if  not  rudely  disturbed  or  interfered  with. 

Little  tokens  of  good-will  and  kind  remem¬ 
brance  were  constantly  coming  to  her  from  the 
girls  in  the  school  and  the  good  people  in  the 
village.  Some  of  the  mansion-house  people  ob¬ 
tained  rare  flowers  which  they  sent  her,  and  her 
table  was  covered  with  fruits  which  tempted  her 
in  vain.  Several  of  the  school-girls  wished  to 
make  her  a  basket  of  their  own  handiwork,  and, 
tilling  it  with  autumnal  flowers,  to  send  it  as  a 
joint  offering.  Mr.  Bernard  found  out  their  proj¬ 
ect  accidentally,  and,  wishing  to  have  his  share  in 
it,  brought  home  from  one  of  his  long  walks  some 
boughs  full  of  variously  tinted  leaves,  such  as 
were  still  clinging  to  the  stricken  trees.  With 
these  he  brought  also  some  of  the  already  fallen 
*eafl.ets  of  the  white  ash,  remarkable  for  their  rich 
olive-purple  color,  forming  a  beautiful  contrast 
with  some  of  the  lighter-lmed  leaves.  It  so  hap¬ 
pened  that  this  particular  tree,  the  white  ash,  did 
not  grow  upon  The  Mountain,  and  the  leaflet* 
Were  more  welcome  for  their  comparative  rarity 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


530 


So  the  girls  made  their  basket,  and  the  floor  of 
it  they  covered  with  the  rich  olive-purple  leaflets. 
Such  late  flowers  as  tney  could  lay  their  hands 
upon  served  to  fill  it,  and  with  many  kindly  mes¬ 
sages  they  sent  it  to  Miss  Elsie  Venner  at  the 
Dudley  mansion-house. 

Elsie  was  sitting  up  in  her  bed  when  it  came, 
languid,  but  tranquil,  and  Helen  was  by  her,  aa 
usual,  holding  her  hand,  which  was  strangely  cold, 
Helen  thought,  for  one  who  was  said  to  have 
Borne  kind  of  fever.  The  school-girls’  basket  was 
brought  in  with  its  messages  of  love  and  hopes 
for  speedy  recovery.  Old  Sophy  was  delighted 
to  see  that  it  pleased  Elsie,  and  laid  it  on  the 
bed  before  her.  Elsie  began  looking  at  the  flow 
ers  and  taking  them  from  the  basket,  that  she 
might  see  the  leaves.  All  at  once  she  appeared 
to  be  agitated ;  she  looked  at  the  basket,  —  then 
around,  as  if  there  were  some  fearful  presence 
about  her  which  she  was  searching  for  with  her 
eager  glances.  She  took  out  the  flowers,  one  by 
one,  her  breathing  growing  hurried,  her  eyes  star¬ 
ing,  her  hands  trembling,  — till,  as  she  came  near 
the  bottom  of  the  basket,  she  flung  out  all  the 
rest  with  a  hasty  movement,  looked  upon  the 
olive-purple  leaflets  as  if  paralyzed  for  a  moment, 
shrunk  up,  as  it  were,  into  herself  in  a  curdling 
terror,  dashed  the  basket  from  her,  and  fell  back 
genseless,  with  a  faint  cry  which  chilled  the  blood 
of  the  startled  listeners  at  her  bedside. 

u  Take  it  away !  —  take  it  away .  —  quick  \ 


540 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


said  Old  Sophy,  as  she  hastened  to  her  mistress’s 
pillow.  u  It’s  the  leaves  of  the  tree  that  was  al¬ 
ways  death  to  her, — take  it  away!  She  can’t 
live  wi’  it  in  the  room !  ” 

The  poor  old  woman  began  chafing  Elsie’s 
hands,  and  Helen  to  try  to  rouse  her  with  harts¬ 
horn,  while  a  third  frightened  attendant  gathered 
up  the  flowers  and  the  basket  and  carried  them 
out  of  the  apartment.  She  came  to  herself  after 
a  time,  but  exhausted  and  then  wandering.  In 
her  delirium  she  talked  constantly  as  if  she  were 
in  a  cave,  with  such  exactness  of  circumstance 
that  Helen  could  not  doubt  at  all  that  she  had 
some  such  retreat  among  the  rocks  of  The  Moun¬ 
tain,  probably  fitted  up  in  her  own  fantastic  way, 
where  she  sometimes  hid  herself  from  all  human 
eyes,  and  of  the  entrance  to  which  she  alone  pos¬ 
sessed  the  secret. 

All  this  passed  away,  and  left  her,  of  course, 
weaker  than  before.  But  this  was  not  the  only 
influence  the  unexplained  paroxysm  had  left  be¬ 
hind  it.  From  this  time  forward  there  was  a 
change  in  her  whole  expression  and  her  manner. 
The  shadows  ceased  flitting  over  her  features, 
and  the  old  woman,  who  watched  her  from  day 
to  day  and  from  hour  to  hour  as  a  mother 
watches  her  child,  saw  the  likeness  she  bore  to 
her  mother  coming  forth  more  and  more,  as  the 
cold  glitter  died  out  of  the  diamond  eyes,  and 
the  stormy  scowl  disappeared  from  the  dark  brow* 
and  low  forehead. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


541 


With  all  the  kindness  and  indulgence  her  fa* 
ther  had  bestowed  upon  her,  Elsie  had  never  felt 
that  he  loved  her.  The  reader  knows  well  enough 
what  fatal  recollections  and  associations  had 
frozen  up  the  springs  of  natural  affection  in 
his  breast.  There  was  nothing  in  the  world 
he  would  not  do  for  Elsie.  He  had  sacrificed  his 
whole  life  to  her.  His  very  seeming  carelessness 
about  restraining  her  was  all  calculated;  he 
knew  that  restraint  would  produce  nothing  but 
utter  alienation.  Just  so  far  as  she  allowed  him, 
he  shared  her  studies,  her  few  pleasures,  her 
thoughts ;  but  she  was  essentially  solitary  and 
Uncommunicative.  No  person,  as  was  said  long 
ago,  could  judge  him,  —  because  his  task  was 
not  merely  difficult,  but  simply  impracticable  to 
human  powers.  A  nature  like  Elsie’s  had  neces¬ 
sarily  to  be  studied  by  itself,  and  to  be  followed 
in  its  laws  where  it  could  not  be  led. 

Every  day,  at  different  hours,  during  the  whole 
of  his  daughter’s  illness,  Dudley  Yenner  had  sat 
by  her,  doing  all  he  could  to  soothe  and  please 
her.  Always  the  same  thin  film  of  some  emo¬ 
tional  non-conductor  between  them  ;  always  that 
kind  of  habitual  regard  and  family-interest,  min¬ 
gled  with  the  deepest  pity  on  one  side  and  a  sort 
of  respect  on  the  other,  which  never  warmed  into 
outward  evidences  of  affection. 

It  was  after  this  occasion,  when  she  had  been 
bo  profoundly  agitated  by  a  seemingly  insignifi¬ 
cant  cause,  that  her  father  and  Old  Sophy  were 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


sitting,  one  at  one  side  of  her  bed  and  one  at  the 
other.  She  had  fallen  into  a  light  slumber.  As 
they  were  looking  at  her,  the  same  thought  came 
into  both  their  minds  at  the  same  moment.  Old 
Sophy  spoke  for  both,  as  she  said,  in  a  low 
voice,  — 

u  It’s  her  mother’s  look,  —  it’s  her  mother’s 
own  face  right  over  again,  —  she  never  look’  so 
before,  —  the  Lord’s  hand  is  on  her!  His  will  be 
done !  ” 

When  Elsie  woke  and  lifted  her  languid  eyes 
upon  her  father’s  face,  she  saw  in  it  a  tenderness, 
a  depth  of  affection,  such  as  she  remembered  at 
rare  moments  of  her  childhood,  when  she  had 
won  him  to  her  by  some  unusual  gleam  of  sun¬ 
shine  in  her  fitful  temper. 

“  Elsie,  dear,”  he  said,  “  we  were  thinking  how 
much  your  expression  was  sometimes  like  that 
of  your  sweet  mofher.  If  you  could  but  have 
seen  her,  so  as  to  remember  her !  ” 

The  tender  look  and  tone,  the  yearning  of  the 
daughter’s  heart  for  the  mother  she  had  never 
seen,  save  only  with  the  unfixed,  undistinguish¬ 
ing  eyes  of  earliest  infancy,  perhaps  the  under¬ 
bought  that  she  might  soon  rejoin  her  in  another 
state  of  being,  —  alf-camg_uj)on  her  with  a  sudden 
overflow  of  feeling  which  broke  through  all  the 
barriers  between'  her  heart  and  her  eyes,  and 
Elsie  wept.  It  seemed  to  her  father  as  if  the 
malign  influence  —  evil  spirit  it  might  almosi 
be  called  —  which  had  pervaded  her  being,  hatf 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


543 


at  last  been  driven  forth  or  exorcised,  and  that 
these  tears  were  at  once  the  sign  and  the  pledge 
of  her  redeemed  nature.  But  now  she  was  to  bs 
soothed,  and  not  excited.  After  her  tears  she 
slept  again,  and  the  look  her  face  wore  was 
peaceful  as  never  before. 

Old  Sophy  met  the  Doctor  at  the  door  and 
told  him  all  the  circumstances  connected  with 
the  extraordinary  attack  from  which  Elsie  had 
suffered.  It  was  the  purple  leaves,  she  said. 
She  remembered  that  Dick  once  brought  home 
a  branch  of  a  tree  with  some  of  the  same  leaves 
on  it,  and  Elsie  screamed  and  almost  fainted 
then.  She,  Sophy,  had  asked  her,  after  she  had 
got  quiet,  what  it  was  in  the  leaves  that  made 
her  feel  so  bad.  Elsie  couldn’t  tell  her,  —  didn’t 
like  to  speak  about  it,  —  shuddered  whenever 
Sophy  mentioned  it. 

This  did  not  sound  so  strangely  to  the  old 
Doctor  as  it  does  to  some  who  listen  to  this 
narrative.  He  had  known  some  curious  exam¬ 
ples  of  antipathies,  and  remembered  reading  of 
others  still  more  singular.  He  had  known  those 
who  could  not  bear  the  presence  of  a  cat,  and 
recollected  the  story,  often  told,  of  a  person’s 
hiding  one  in  a  chest  when  one  of  these  sensi¬ 
tive  individuals  came  into  the  room,  so  as  not 
to  disturb  him ;  but  he  presently  began  to  sweat 
and  turn  pale,  and  cried  out  that  there  must  be  a 
cat  hid  somewhere.  He  knew  people  who  were 
poisoned  by  strawberries,  by  honey,  by  differen4 


544 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


meats,  —  many  who  could  not  endure  cheese,  — • 
some  who  could  not  bear  the  smell  of  roses.  If 
he  had  known  all  the  stories  in  the  old  books,  he 
would  have  found  that  some  have  swooned  and 
become  as  dead  men  at  the  smell  of  a  rose,— 
that  a  stout  soldier  has  been  known  to  turn  and 
run  at  the  sight  or  smell  of  rue,  —  that  cassia 
and  even  olive-oil  have  produced  deadly  faint- 
ings  in  certain  individuals,  —  in  short,  that  al¬ 
most  everything  has  seemed  to  be  a  poison  to 
somebody. 

“  Bring  me  that  basket,  Sophy,”  said  the  old 
Doctor,  “  if  you  can  find  it.” 

Sophy  brought  it  to  him,  —  for  he  had  no*  yet 
entered  Elsie’s  apartment. 

“  These  purple  leaves  are  from  the  white  ash,” 
he  said.  “  You  don’t  know  the  notion  that  peo¬ 
ple  commonly  have  about  that  tree,  Sophy? ” 

u  I  know  they  say  the  Ugly  Things  never  go 
where  the  white  ash  grows,”  Sophy  answered. 
“  Oh,  Doctor  dear,  what  I’m  thinkin’  of  a’n’t 
true,  is  it?” 

The  Doctor  smiled  sadly,  but  did  not  answer. 
He  went  directly  to  Elsie’s  room.  Nobody  would 
have  known  by  his  manner  that  he  saw  any  spe¬ 
cial  change  in  his  patient.  He  spoke  with  her 
as  usual,  made  some  slight  alteration  in  his 
prescriptions,  and  left  the  room  with  a  kind, 
cheerful  look.  He  met  her  father  on  the  staira, 
“  Is  it  as  I  thought  ?  ”  said  Dudley  Venner. 
a  There  is  everything  to  fear,”  the  Doctor  saia 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


/ 


54* 


*  and  not  much,  I  am  afraid,  to  hope.  Does  not 
her  face  recall  to  you  one  that  you  remember,  as 
never  before  ?  ” 

“  Yes,”  her  father  answered, — u  oh,  yes !  What 
is  the  meaning  of  this  change  which  has  come  over 
her  features,  and  her  voice,  her  temper,  her  whole 
being  ?  Tell  me,  oh,  tell  me,  what  is  it  ?  Can 
it  be  that  the  curse  is  passing  away,  and  my 
daughter  is  to  be  restored  to  me,  —  such  as  her 
mother  would  have  had  her,  —  such  as  her  moth¬ 
er  was  ?  ” 

“  Walk  out  with  me  into  the  garden,”  the 
Doctor  said,  t:and  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know 
and  all  I  think  about  this  great  mystery  of 
Elsie’s  life.” 

They  walked  out  together,  and  the  Doctor 
began :  — 

u  She  has  lived  a  double  being,  as  it  were,  — 
the  consequence  of  the  blight  which  fell  upon 
her  in  the  dim  period  before  consciousness.  You 
can  see  what  she  might  have  been  but  for  this. 
You  know  that  for  these  eighteen  years  her 
whole  existence  has  taken  its  character  from 
that  influence  which  we  need  not  name.  Bui 
you  will  remember  that  few  of  the  lower  forms 
of  life  last  as  human  beings  do;  and  thus  it 
might  have  been  hoped  and  trusted  with  some 
show  of  reason,  as  1  have  always  suspected  you 
hoped  and  trusted,  perhaps  more  confidently  than 
myself,  that  the  lower  nature  which  had  become 
,  ugralted  on  the  higher  w  ould  die  out  and  leave 

85 


546 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


the  real  woman’s  life  she  inherited  to  outlive  this 
accidental  principle  which  had  so  poisoned  her 
childhood  and  youth.  I  believe  it  is  so  dying 
out;  but  I  am  afraid,  —  yes^l  must  say  it,  i  fear 
it  has  involved  the  centres  of  life  in  its  own  de¬ 
cays  There  is  hardly  any  pulse  at  Elsie’s  wrist; 
no  stimulants  seem  to  rouse  her ;  and  it  looks  as 
If  life  were  slowly  retreating  inwards,  so  that  by- 
and-by  she  will  sleep  as  those  who  lie  down  in 
the  cold  and  never  wake.’* 

Strange  as  it  may  seem,  her  father  heard  all 
this  not  without  deep  sorrow,  and  such  marks 
of  it  as  his  thoughtful  and  tranquil  nature,  long 
schooled  by  suffering,  claimed  or  permitted,  but 
with  a  resignation  itself  the  measure  of  his  past 
trials.  Dear  as  his  daughter  might  become  to 
him,  all  he  dared  to  ask  of  Heaven  was  that  she 
might  be  restored  to  that  truer  self  which  lay 
beneath  her  false  and  adventitious  being.  If  he 
could  once  see  that  the  icy  lustre  in  her  eyes  had 
become  a  soft,  calm  light,  —  that  her  soul  was  at 
peace  with  all  about  her  and  with  Him  above,  — 
this  crumb  from  the  children’s  table  was  enough 
for  him,  as  it  was  for  the  Syro-Phoenician  woman 
who  asked  that  the  dark  spirit  might  go  out  from 
her  daughter. 


There  was  little  change  the  next  day,  until  all 
at  once  she  said  in  a  clear  voice  that  she  should 
like  to  see  her  master  at  the  school,  Mr.  Langdon. 
He  came  accordingly,  and  took  the  place  of 
Helen  at  her  bedside.  It  seemed  as  if  Elsie  hao 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


54? 


forgotten  the  last  scene  with  him.  Might  it  be 
that  pride  had  come  in,  and  she  had  sent  for  him 
only  to  show  how  superior  she  had  grown  to  the 
weakness  which  had  betrayed  her  into  that  ex¬ 
traordinary  request,  so  contrary  to  the  instincts 
and  usages  of  her  sex  ?  Or  was  it  that  the 
singular  change  which  had  come  over  her  had 
involved  her  passionate  fancy  for  him  and  swept 
it  away  with  her  other  habits  of  thought  and 
feeling?  Or  could  it  be  that  she  felt  that  all 
earthly  interests  were  becoming  of  little  account 
to  her,  and  wished  to  place  herself  right  with 
one  to  whom  she  had  displayed  a  wayward 
movement  of  her  unbalanced  imagination  ?  She 
welcomed  Mr.  Bernard  as  quietly  as  she  had 
received  Helen  Darley.  He  colored  at  the  rec¬ 
ollection  of  that  last  scene,  when  he  came  into 
her  presence;  but  she  smiled  with  perfect  tran¬ 
quillity.  She  did  not  speak  to  him  of  any  ap¬ 
prehension  ;  but  he  saw  that  she  looked  upon 
herself  as  doomed.  So  friendly,  yet  so  calm  did 
she  seem  through  all  their  interview,  that  Mr, 
Bernard  could  only  look  back  upon  her  mani¬ 
festation  of  feeling  towards  him  on  their  walk 
from  the  school  as  a  vagary  of  a  mind  laboring 
under  some  unnatural  excitement,  and  wholly  at 
variance  with  the  true  character  of  Elsie  Yenncr 
a3  he  saw  her  before  him  in  her  subdued,  yet 
singular  beauty.  He  looked  with  almost  scien 
tific  closeness  of  observation  into  the  diamond 
tyes ;  but  that  peculiar  lignt  which  he  knew  so 


548 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


well  was  not  there.  She  was  the  same  in  one 
sense  as  on  that  first  day  when  he  had  seen  her 
coiling  and  uncoiling  her  golden  chain ;  yet  how 
different  in  every  aspect  which  revealed  her  state 
of  mind  and  emotion !  Something  of  tenderness 
there  was,  perhaps,  in  her  tone  towards  him  ;  she 
would  not  have  sent  for  him,  had  she  not  felt 
more  than  an  ordinary  interest  in  him.  But 
through  the  whole  of  his  visit  she  never  lost  her 
gracious  self-possession.  The  Dudley  race  might 
well  be  proud  of  the  last  of  its  daughters,  as  she 
lay  dying,  but  unconquered  by  the  feeling  of  the 
present  or  the  fear  of  the  future. 

As  for  Mr.  Bernard,  he  found  it  very  hard  to 
look  upon  her,  and  listen  to  her  unmoved.  There 
was  nothing  that  reminded  him  of  the  stormy- 
browed,  almost  savage  girl  he  remembered  in 
her  fierce  loveliness, —  nothing  of  all  her  singu¬ 
larities  of  air  and  of  costume.  Nothing?  Yes, 
one  thing.  Weak  and  suffering  as  she  was,  she 
had  never  parted  with  one  particular  ornament, 
such  as  a  sick  person  would  naturally,  as  it  might 
be  supposed,  get  rid  of  at  once.  The  golden  cord 
which  she  wore  round  her  neck  at  the  great  party 
was  still  there.  A  bracelet  was  lying  by  her  pil¬ 
low  ;  she  had  unclasped  it  from  her  wrist. 

Before  Mr.  Bernard  left  her,  she  said, — 

“  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  Some  time  or 
other,  perhaps,  you  will  mention  my  name  to  one 
whom  you  love.  Give  ner  this  from  your  schola, 
*nd  friend  Elsie.” 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


549 


He  took  the  bracelet,  raised  her  hand  to  his 
lips,  then  turned  his  face  away ;  in  that  mo¬ 
ment  he  was  the  weaker  of  the  two. 

“  Good-bye,”  she  said ;  “  thank  you  for  com¬ 
ing” 

His  voice  died  away  in  his  throat,  as  he  tried 
to  answer  her.  She  followed  him  with  her  eyes 
as  he  passed  from  her  sight  through  the  door, 
and  when  it  closed  after  him  sobbed  tremu¬ 
lously  once  or  twice,  —  but  stilled  herself,  and 
met  Helen,  as  she  entered,  with  a  composed 
countenance. 

“  I  have  had  a  very  pleasant  visit  from  Mr. 
Langdon,”  Elsie  said.  “  Sit  by  me,  Helen, 
awhile  without  speaking ;  I  should  like  to  ®Vep, 
If  I  can,  —  and  to  dream.” 


550 


ELSIE  VENNEB. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

THE  GOLDEN  CORD  IS  LOOSED. 

The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fairweather,  hearing 
that  his  parishioner’s  daughter,  Elsie,  was  very 
111,  could  do  nothing  less  than  come  to  the 
mansion-house  and  tender  such  consolations  as 
he  was  master  of.  It  was  rather  remarkable 
that  the  old  Doctor  did  not  exactly  approve  of 
his  visit.  He  thought  that  company  of  every  sort 
might  be  injurious  in  her  weak  state.  He  was 
of  opinion  that  Mr.  Fairweather,  though  greatly 
interested  in  religious  matters,  was  not  the  most 
sympathetic  person  that  could  be  found ;  in  fact, 
the  old  Doctor  thought  he  was  too  much  taken 
up  with  his  own  interests  for  eternity  to  give 
himself  quite  so  heartily  to  the  need  of  other 
people  as  some  persons  got  up  on  a  rather 
more  generous  scale  (our  good  neighbor  Dr 
Honeywood,  for  instance)  could  do.  However, 
all  these  things  had  better  be  arranged  to  suit 
her  wants ;  if  she  would  like  to  talk  with  a  cler¬ 
gyman,  she  had  a  great  deal  better  see  one  as 
often  as  she  liked,  and  run  the  risk  of  the  ex¬ 
citement,  than  have  a  hidden  wish  for  such  8 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


551 


risit  and  perhaps  find  herself  too  weak  to  see 
him  by-and-by. 

The  old  Doctor  knew  by  sad  experience  that 
dreadful  mistake  against  which  all  medical  prac¬ 
titioners  should  be  warned.  His  experience  may 
well  be  a  guide  for  others.  Do  not  overlook  the 
desire  for  spiritual  advice  and  consolation  which 
patients  sometimes  feel,  and,  with  the  frightful 
mauvaise  honte  peculiar  to  Protestantism,  alone 
among  all  human  beliefs,  are  ashamed  to  tell. 
As  a  part  of  medical  treatment,  it  is  the  phy¬ 
sician’s  business  to  detect  the  hidden  longing 
for  the  food  of  the  soul,  as  much  as  for  any 
form  of  bodily  nourishment.  Especially  in  the 
higher  walks  of  society,  where  this  unutterably 
miserable  false  shame  of  Protestantism  acts  in 
proportion  to  the  general  acuteness  of  the  cul¬ 
tivated  sensibilities,  let  no  unwillingness  to  sug¬ 
gest  the  sick  person’s  real  need  suffer  him  to 
languish  between  his  want  and  his  morbid  sen¬ 
sitiveness.  What  an  infinite  advantage  the  Mus¬ 
sulmans  and  the  Catholics  have  over  many  of 
our  more  exclusively  spiritual  sects  in  the  way 
they  keep  their  religion  always  by  them  and 
lever  blush  for  it!  And  besides  this  spiritual 
longing,  we  should  never  forget  that 

“On  some  fond  breast  the  parting  soul  relies,” 


and  the  minister  of  religion,  in  addition  to  the 
sympathetic  nature  whicn  we  have  a  right  to 


552 


ELSIE  VENXER. 


demand  in  him,  has  trained  himself  to  the  art 
of  entering  into  the  feelings  of  others. 

The  reader  must  pardon  this  digression,  which 
introduces  the  visit  of  the  Reverend  Chauncy 
Fairweather  to  Elsie  Venner.  It  was  mentioned 
to  her  that  he  would  like  to  call  and  see  how  she 
was,  and  she  consented,  —  not  with  much  appar¬ 
ent  interest,  for  she  had  reasons  of  her  own  for 
not  feeling  any  very  deep  conviction  of  his  sym¬ 
pathy  for  persons  in  sorrow.  But  he  came,  and 
worked  the  conversation  round  to  religion,  and 
confused  her  with  his  hybrid  notions,  half  made 
up  of  what  he  had  been  believing  and  teaching 
all  his  life,  and  half  of  the  new  doctrines  which 
he  had  veneered  upon  the  surface  of  his  old  be¬ 
lief.  He  got  so  far  as  to  make  a  prayer  with 
her,  —  a  cool  well-guarded  prayer,  which  compro¬ 
mised  his  faith  as  little  as  possible,  and  which, 
if  devotion  were  a  game  played  against  Provi¬ 
dence,  might  have  been  considered  a  cautious 
and  sagacious  move. 

When  he  had  gone,  Elsie  called  Old  Sophy 
to  her. 

“  Sophy,”  she  said,  “  don’t  let  them  send  tha 
•old-hearted  man  to  me  any  more.  If  your  ol 
minister  comes  to  see  you,  I  should  like  to  hear 
him  talk.  He  looks  as  if  he  cared  for  every¬ 
body,  and  would  care  for  me.  And,  Sophy,  if 
I  should  die  one  of  these  days,  I  should  like 
to  have  that  old  minister  come  and  say  what» 
ever  is  to  be  said  over  me.  It  would  comfor* 


ELSIE  VENNEIt 


553 


Dudley  more,  I  know,  than  to  have  that  hard 
man  here,  when  you’re  in  trouble,  —  for  some 
of  you  will  be  sorry  when  Pm  gone,  —  won’t 
you,  Sophy  ?  ” 

The  poor  old  black  woman  could  not  stand 
this  question.  The  cold  minister  had  frozen 
Elsie  until  she  felt  as  if  nobody  cared  for  hei 
or  would  regret  her,  —  and  her  question  had 
betrayed  this  momentary  feeling. 

“  Don’  talk  so !  don’  talk  so,  darlin’ !  ”  she 
cried,  passionately.  “  When  you  go,  Ol’  So- 
phy’ll  go ;  ’n’  where  you  go,  Ol’  Sophy’ll  go : 
’n’  we’ll  both  go  t’  th’  place  where  th’  Lord  takes 
care  of  all  his  children,  whether  their  faces  are 
white  or  black.  Oh,  darlin’,  darlin’ !  if  th’  Lord 
should  let  me  die  fus’,  you  shall  fin’  all  ready 
for  you  when  you  come  after  me.  On’y  don’ 
go  ’n’  leave  poor  Ol’  Sophy  all  ’lone  in  th* 
world !  ” 

Helen  came  in  at  this  inument  and  quieted 
the  old  woman  with  a  look.  Such  scenes  were 
just  what  were  most  dangerous,  in  the  state  in 
which  Elsie  was  lying :  but  that  is  one  of  the 
Ways  in  which  an  affectionate  friend  sometimes 
unconsciously  wears  out  the  life  which  a  hired 
nurse,  thinking  of  nothing  but  her  regular  du¬ 
ties  and  her  wages,  would  have  spared  from  all 
emotional  fatigue. 

The  change  which  had  come  over  Elsie’s  dis¬ 
position  was  itself  the  cause  of  new  excitements. 
How  was  it  possible  mat  her  father  could  keep 


554 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


away  from  her,  now  that  she  was  coming  back 
to  the  nature  and  the  very  look  of  her  mother; 
the  bride  of  his  youth  ?  How  was  it  possible 
to  refuse  her,  when  she  said  to  Old  Sophy,  that 
she  should  like  to  have  her  minister  come  in 
and  sit  by  her,  even  though  his  presence  might 
perhaps  prove  a  new  source  of  excitement  ? 

But  the  Reverend  Doctor  did  come  and  sit 
by  her,  and  spoke  such  soothing  words  to  her, 
words  of  such  peace  and  consolation,  that  from 
that  hour  she  was  tranquil  as  never  before.  All 
true  hearts  are  alike  in  the  hour  of  need  ;  the 
Catholic  has  a  reserved  fund  of  faith  for  his 
fellow-creature’s  trying  moment,  and  the  Cal¬ 
vinist  reveals  those  springs  of  human  brother¬ 
hood  and  charity  in  his  soul  which  are  only 
covered  over  by  the  iron  tables  inscribed  with 
the  harder  dogmas  of  his  creed.  It  was  enough 
that  the  Reverend  Doctor  knew  all  Elsie’s  his¬ 
tory.  He  could  not  judge  her  by  any  formula, 
like  those  which  have  been  moulded  by  past  ages 
out  of  their  ignorance.  He  did  not  talk  with 
her  as  if  she  were  an  outside  sinner,  worse  than 
iumself.  He  found  a  bruised  and  languishing 
soul,  and  bound  up  its  wounds.  A  blessed  of¬ 
fice,  —  one  which  is  confined  to  no  sect  or  cree^ 
nut  which  good  men  in  all  times,  under  various 
names  and  with  varying  ministries,  to  suit  the 
need  of  each  age,  of  each  race,  of  each  individ¬ 
ual  soul,  have  come  forward  to  discharge  fo 
heir  suffering  fellow-creatures. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


555 


After  this  there  was  little  change  in  Elsie,  ex 
eept  that  her  heart  beat  more  feebly  every  day,  — 
so  that  the  old  Doctor  himself,  with  all  his  experi¬ 
ence,  could  see  nothing  to  account  for  the  gradual 
failing  of  the  powers  of  life,  and  yet  could  find 
no  remedy  which  seemed  to  arrest  its  progress  in 
the  smallest  degree. 

“  Be  very  careful/’  he  said,  “  that  she  is  not 
allowed  to  make  any  muscular  exertion.  Any 
such  effort,  when  a  person  is  so  enfeebled,  may 
stop  the  heart  in  a  moment;  and  if  it  stops,  it 
will  never  move  again.” 

Helen  enforced  this  rule  with  the  greatest  care. 
Elsie  was  hardly  allowed  to  move  her  hand  or  to 
speak  above  a  whisper.  It  seemed  to  be  mainly 
the  question  now,  whether  this  trembling  flame  of 
life  would  be  blown  out  by  some  light  breath  of 
air,  or  whether  it  could  be  so  nursed  and  sheltered 
by  the  hollow  of  these  watchful  hands  that  it 
would  have  a  chance  to  kindle  to  its  natural 
brightness. 

- Her  father  came  in  to  sit  with  her  in  the 

evening.  He  had  never  talked  so  freely  with  her 
as  during  the  hour  he  had  passed  at  her  bedside, 
telling  her  little  circumstances  of  her  mother’s 
.ife,  living  over  with  her  all  that  was  pleasant  in 
the  past,  and  trying  to  encourage  her  with  some 
cheerful  gleams  of  hope  for  the  future.  A  faint 
smile  played  over  her  face,  but  she  did  not  an¬ 
swer  his  encouraging  suggestions.  The  hour 


556 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


came  for  him  to  leave  her  with  those  whu 
watched  by  her. 

“  Good-night,  my  dear  child,1 ”  he  said,  and 
stooping  down,  kissed  her  cheek. 

Elsie  rose  by  a  sudden  effort,  threw  her  aims 
round  his  neck,  kissed  him,  and  said,  “Good-nighty 
my  dear  father !  ” 

The  suddenness  of  her  movement  had  taken 
him  by  surprise,  or  he  would  have  checked  so  , 
dangerous  an  effort.  It  was  too  late  now.  Hei 
arms  slid  away  from  him  like  lifeless  weights, 
—  her  head  fell  back  upon  her  pillow, —  a  long 
sigh  breathed  through  her  lips. 

u  She  is  faint,”  said  Helen,  doubtfully  ;  “  bring 
me  the  hartshorn,  Sophy.” 

The  old  woman  had  started  from  her  place,  and 
was  now  leaning  over  her,  looking  in  her  face,  and 
listening  for  the  sound  of  her  breathing. 

“  She’s  dead  !  Elsie’s  dead !  My  darlin’  ’s 
dead !  ”  she  cried  aloud,  filling  the  room  with  her 
utterance  of  anguish. 

Dudley  Venner  drew  her  away  and  silenced 
tier  with  a  voice  of  authority,  while  Helen  and 
an  assistant  plied  their  restoratives.  It  was  all 
jn  vain. 

The  solemn  tidings  passed  from  the  ehambei 
of  death  through  the  family.  The  daughter,  the 
hope  of  that  old  and  honored  house,  was  dead  in 
the  freshness  of  her  youth,  and  the  home  of  it! 


ELSIE  YENNER. 


559 


tor  Honeywood,  in  accordance  with  Elsie’s  re¬ 
quest.  He  could  not,  by  any  reasoning,  reconcile 
his  present  way  of  thinking  with  a  hope  for  the 
future  of  his  unfortunate  parishioner.  Any  gooc 
old  Roman  Catholic  priest,  bom  and  bred  to  his 
faith  and  his  business,  would  have  found  a  loop¬ 
hole  into  some  kind  of  heaven  for  her,  by  virtue 
of  his  doctrine  of  “  invincible  ignorance,”  or  other 
special  proviso  ;  but  a  recent  convert  cannot  enter 
into  the  working  conditions  of  his  new  creed. 
Beliefs  must  be  lived  in  for  a  good  while,  before 
they  accommodate  themselves  to  the  soul’s  wants, 
and  wear  loose  enough  to  be  comfortable. 

The  Reverend  Doctor  had  no  such  scruples. 
Like  thousands  of  those  who  are  classed  nomi¬ 
nally  with  the  despairing  believers,  he  had  never 
prayed  over  a  departed  brother  or  sister  without 
feeling  and  expressing  a  guarded  hope  that  there 
was  mercy  in  store  for  the  poor  sinner,  whom 
parents,  wives,  children,  brothers  and  sisters  could 
not  bear  to  give  up  to  utter  ruin  without  a  word, 
■ — and  would  not,  as  he  knew  full  well,  in  virtue 
of  that  human  love  and  sympathy  which  nothing 
can  ever  extinguish.  •  And  in  this  poor  Elsie’s 
history  he  could  read  nothing  which  the  tears  of 
\he  recording  angel  might  not  wash  away.  As 
the  good  physician  of  the  place  knew  the  diseases 
that  assailed  the  bodies  of  men  and  women,  so 
he  had  learned  the  mysteries  of  the  sickness  of 
the  soul. 

So  many  wished  to  look  upon  Elsie’s  face  ones 


560 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


more,  that  her  father  would  not  deny  them  ;  nay, 
he  was  pleased  that  those  who  remembered  hei 
living  should  see  her  in  the  still  beauty  of  death, 
Helen  and  those  with  her  arrayed  her  for  this 
fare  well- view.  All  was  ready  for  the  sad  or  cu» 
rious  eyes  which  were  to  look  upon  her.  There 
was  no  painful  change  to  be  concealed  by  any 
artifice.  Even  her  round  neck  was  left  uncov¬ 
ered,  that  she  might  be  more  like  one  who  slept 
Only  the  golden  cord  was  left  in  its  place  :  some 
searching  eye  might  detect  a  trace  of  that  birth¬ 
mark  which  it  was  whispered  she  had  always 
worn  a  necklace  to  conceal. 

At  the  last  moment,  when  all  the  preparations 
were  completed,  Old  Sophy  stooped  over  her, 
and,  with  trembling  hand,  loosed  the  golden  cord. 
She  looked  intently,  for  some  little  space :  there 
was  no  shade  nor  blemish  where  the  ring  of  gold 
had  encircled  her  throat.  She  took  it  gently 
away  and  laid  it  in  the  casket  which  held  her 
ornaments. 

“  The  Lord  be  praised !  ”  the  old  woman  cried, 
aloud.  “  He  has  taken  away  the  mark  that  wa? 
on  her ;  she’s  fit  to  meet  his  holy  angels  now  ! ” 

So  Elsie  lay  for  hours  in  the  great  room,  in 
a  kind  of  state,  with  flowers  all  about  her,— 
her  black  hair  braided  as  in  life,  —  her  brows 
smooth,  as  if  they  had  never  known  the  scowl 
of  passion,  —  and  on  her  lips  the  faint  smile 
with  which  she  had  uttered  her  last  “  Good 
night.”  The  young  girls  from  the  school  looked 


ELSIE  VENNEK. 


557 


solitary  representative  was  hereafter  doubly  des* 
olate. 

A  messenger  rode  hastily  out  of  the  avenue. 
A  little  after  this  the  people  of  the  village  and 
die  outlying  farm-houses  were  startled  by  the 
ound  of  a  bell. 

One,  —  two,  —  three,  —  four,  — 

They  stopped  in  every  house,  as  far  as  the 

wavering  vibrations  reached,  and  listened - 

- live,  - —  six,  —  seven,  — 

It  was  not  the  little  child  which  had  been  lying 
bo  long  at  the  point  of  death ;  that  could  not  be 

more  than  three  or  four  years  old - 

- eight,  —  nine,  —  ten,  —  and  so  on  to  fif¬ 
teen,  —  sixteen,  —  seventeen,  —  eighteen  - - 

The  pulsations  seemed  to  keep  on,  —  but  it 
was  the  brain,  and  not  the  bell,  that  was  throb¬ 
bing  now. 

“  Elsie’s  dead !  ”  was  the  exclamation  at  a 
hundred  firesides. 

“  Eighteen  year  old,”  said  old  Widow  Peake, 
rising  from  her  chair.  “  Eighteen  year  ago  1 
laid  two  gold  eagles  on  her  mother’s  eyes,  —  he 
wouldn’t  have  anything  but  gold  touch  her  eye* 
fids, —  and  now  Elsie’s  to  be  straightened,— 
the  Lord  have  mercy  on  her  poor  sinful  soul !  ” 
Dudley  Venner  prayed  that  night  that  he  might 
le  forgiven,  if  he  had  failed  in  any  act  of  duty  or 
kindness  to  this  unfortunate  child  of  his,  now 
Greed  from  all  the  woes  born  with  her  and  so  long 


558 


ELSIE  VENNER 


poisoning  her  soul.  He  thanked  God  for  the 
brief  interval  of  peace  which  had  been  granted 
her,  for  the  sweet  communion  they  had  enjoyed 
in  these  last  days,  and  for  the  hope  of  meet¬ 
ing  her  with  that  other  lost  friend  in  a  better 
world. 

Helen  mingled  a  few  broken  thanks  and  peti¬ 
tions  with  her  tears :  thanks  that  she  had  been 
permitted  to  share  the  last  days  and  hours  of  this 
poor  sister  in  sorrow ;  petitions  that  the  grief  of 
bereavement  might  be  lightened  to  the  lonely 
parent  and  the  faithful  old  servant. 

Old  Sophy  said  almost  nothing,  but  sat  day 
and  night  by  her  dead  darling.  But  sometimes 
her  anguish  would  find  an  outlet  in  strange 
sounds,  something  between  a  cry  and  a  musical 
note,  —  such  as  none  had  ever  heard  her  utter  be¬ 
fore.  These  were  old  remembrances  surging  up 
from  her  childish  days,  —  coming  through  her 
mother  from  the  cannibal  chief,  her  grandfather, 
—  death-wails,  such  as  they  sing  in  the  moun¬ 
tains  of  Western  Africa,  when  they  see  the  fires 
on  distant  hill-sides  and  know  that  their  own 
wives  and  children  are  undergoing  the  fate  of 
eaptives. 

The  time  came  when  Elsie  was  to  be  laid  by 
her  mother  in  the  small  square  marked  by  the 
white  stone. 

It  was  not  unwillingly  that  the  Reverend 
Chauncy  Fairweather  had  relinquished  the  duty 
of  conducting  the  service  to  the  Reverend  Doo 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


563 


CATALINA 

WIFE  TO  DUDLEY  VENNER 

DIED 

OCTOBER  13th  1840 

AGED  XX  YEARS.  • 

A  gentle  rain  fell  on  the  turf  after  it  waft 
laid.  This  was  the  beginning  of  a  long  and 
dreary  autumnal  storm,  a  deferred  “  equinoctial,” 
as  many  considered  it.  The  mountain  streams 
were  all  swollen  and  turbulent,  and  the  steep 
declivities  were  furrowed  in  every  direction  by 
new  channels.  It  made  the  house  seem  doubly 
desolate  to  hear  the  wind  howling  and  the  rain 
beating  upon  the  roofs.  The  poor  relation  who 
was  staying  at  the  house  would  insist  on  Hel¬ 
en’s  remaining  a  few  days :  Old  Sophy  was  in 
such  a  condition,  that  it  kept  her  in  continual 
anxiety,  and  there  were  many  cares  which  Helen 
could  take  off  from  her. 

The  old  black  woman’s  life  was  buried  in  her 
darling’s  grave.  She  did  nothing  but  moan  and 
lament  for  her.  At  night  she  was  restless,  and 
would  get  up  and  wander  to  Elsie’s  apartment 
and  look  for  her  and  call  her  by  name.  At 
other  times  she  would  lie  awake  and  listen  to 
the  wind  and  the  rain,  —  sometimes  with  such 
a  wild  look  upon  her  face,  and  with  such  sud¬ 
den  starts  and  exclamations,  that  it  seemed  as 
if  she  heard  spirit-voices  and  were  a  nswering  the 


564 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


whispers  of  unseen  visitants.  With  all  this  were 
mingled  hints  of  her  old  superstition,  —  forebod¬ 
ings  of  something  fearful  about  to  happen, — 
perhaps  the  great  final  catastrophe  of  all  things, 
according  to  the  prediction  current  in  Ihe  kitch 
ens  of  Rockland. 

“Hark!”  Old  Sophy  would  say,  — u  don’  you 
hear  th’  crackin’  V  th’  snappin’  up  in  Th’  Moun¬ 
tain,  ’n’  th’  rollin’  o’  th’  big  stones?  The’  ’s 
somethin’  stirrin’  among  th’  rocks;  I  hear  th’ 
soun’  of  it  in  th’  night,  when  th’  wind  has 
stopped  bio  win’.  Oh,  stay  by  me  a  little 
while,  Miss  Darlin’  !  stay  by  me !  for  it’s  th’ 
Las’  Day,  maybe,  that’s  close  on  us,  ’n’  I  feel 
as  if  I  couldn’  meet  th’  Lord  all  alone !  ” 

It  was  curious,  —  but  Helen  did  certainly  rec¬ 
ognize  sounds,  during  the  lull  of  the  storm,  which 
were  not  of  falling  rain  or  running  streams, — 
short  snapping  sounds,  as  of  tense  cords  break¬ 
ing, —  long  uneven  sounds,  as  of  masses  roll¬ 
ing  down  steep  declivities.  But  the  morning 
came  as  usual;  and  as  the  others  said  nothing 
of  these  singular  noises,  Helen  did  not  think  it 
necessary  to  speak  of  them.  All  day  long  she. 
and  the  humble  relative  of  Elsie’s  mother,  who 
had  appeared  as  poor  relations  are  wont  to  in 
the  great  crises  of  life,  were  busy  in  arranging 
the  disordered  house,  and  looking  over  the  vari¬ 
ous  objects  which  Elsie’s  singular  tastes  had 
brought  together,  to  dispose  of  them  as  her 
father  might  direct.  They  all  met  together  at* 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


561 


at  her,  one  after  another,  and  passed  on,  sob¬ 
bing,  carrying  in  their  hearts  the  picture  that 
would  be  with  them  all  their  days.  The  great 
people  of  the  place  were  all  there  with  their  si¬ 
lent  sympathy.  The  lesser  kind  of  gentry,  and 
many  of  the  plainer  folk  of  the  village,  half- 
pleased  to  find  themselves  passing  beneath  the 
stately  portico  of  the  ancient  mansion-house, 
crowded  in,  until  the  ample  rooms  were  over¬ 
flowing.  All  the  friends  whose  acquaintance 
we  have  made  were  there,  and  many  from  re¬ 
moter  villages  and  towns. 

There  was  a  deep  silence  at  last.  The  hour 
had  come  for  the  parting  words  to  be  spoken 
over  the  dead.  The  good  old  minister’s  voice 
rose  out  of  the  stillness,  subdued  and  tremulous 
at  first,  but  growing  firmer  and  clearer  as  he 
went  on,  until  it  reached  the  ears  of  the  visitors 
who  were  in  the  far,  desolate  chambers,  looking 
at  the  pictured  hangings  and  the  old  dusty  por¬ 
traits.  He  did  not  tell  her  story  in  his  prayer. 
He  only  spoke  of  our  dear  departed  sister  as 
one  of  many  whom  Providence  in  its  wisdom 
has  seen  fit  to  bring  under  bondage  from  their 
cradles.  It  was  not  for  us  to  judge  them  by 
any  standard  of  our  own.  He  who  made  the 
heart  alone  k»ew  the  infirmities  it  inherited  or 
acquired.  For  all  that  our  dear  sister  had  pre¬ 
sented  that  was  interesting  and  attractive  in  her 
character  we  were  to  be  grateful ;  for  whatever 

was  dark  or  inexplicable  we  must  trust  thai  tha 

26 


562 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


deep  shadow  which  rested  on  the  twilight  dawn 
of  her  being  might  render  a  reason  before  the 
bar  of  Omniscience ;  for  the  grace  which  had 
lightened  her  last  days  we  should  pour  out  oui 
hearts  in  thankful  acknowledgment.  From  die 
life  and  the  death  of  this  our  dear  sister 
should  learn  a  lesson  of  patience  with  our  fel 
low-creatures  in  their  inborn  peculiarities,  of 
charity  in  judging  what  seem  to  us  wilful  faults 
of  character,  of  hope  and  trust,  that,  by  sickness 
or  affliction,  or  such  inevitable  discipline  as  life 
must  always  bring  with  it,  if  by  no  gentler 
means,  the  soul  which  had  been  left  by  Nature 
to  wander  into  the  path  of  error  and  of  suffer¬ 
ing  might  be  reclaimed  and  restored  to  its  true 
aim,  and  so  led  on  by  divine  grace  to  its  eternal 
welfare.  He  closed  his  prayer  by  commending 
each  member  of  the  afflicted  family  to  the  di¬ 
vine  blessing. 

Then  all  at  once  rose  the  clear  sound  of  the 
girls’  voices,  in  the  sweet,  sad  melody  of  a  fu¬ 
neral  hymn,  —  one  of  those  which  Elsie  had 
marked,  as  if  prophetically,  among  her  own  fa¬ 
vorites. 

And  so  they  laid  her  in  the  earth,  and  show¬ 
ered  down  flowers  upon  her,  and  filled  her  grave, 
and  covered  it  with  green  sods.  By  the  side  of 
it  was  another  oblong  ridge,  with  a  white  stone 
standing  at  its  head.  Mr.  Bernard  looked  upon 
it,  as  he  came  close  to  the  place  where  Elsie 
Was  laid,  and  read  the  inscription, — 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


56* 


the  usual  hour  for  tea.  One  of  the  servant* 
came  in,  looking  very  blank,  and  said  to  the 
poor  relation, — 

“  Th*.  well  is  gone  dry;  we  have  nothing  but 
rain-water.” 

Dudley  Venner’ s  countenance  changed ;  he 
sprang  to  his  feet  and  went  to  assure  himself 
of  the  fact,  and,  if  he  could,  of  the  reason  of 
it.  For  a  well  to  dry  up  during  such  a  rain¬ 
storm  was  extraordinary,  —  it  was  ominous. 

He  came  back,  looking  very  anxious. 

“  Did  any  of  you  notice  any  remarkable  sounds 
last  night,”  he  said,  —  “  or  this  morning  ?  Hark ! 
do  you  hear  anything  now  ?  ” 

They  listened  in  perfect  silence  for  a  few 
moments.  Then  there  came  a  short  cracking 
sound,  and  two  or  three  snaps,  as  of  parting 
cords. 

Dudley  Venner  called  all  his  household  to¬ 
gether. 

“We  are  in  danger  here,  as  I  think,  to¬ 
night,”  he  said,  —  “not  very  great  danger,  per¬ 
haps,  but  it  is  a  risk  I  do  not  wish  you  to 
run.  These  heavy  rains  have  loosed  some  of 
the  rocks  above,  and  they  may  come  down  and 
endanger  the  house.  Harness  the  horses,  El- 
bridge,  and  take  all  the  family  away.  Miss 
Darley  will  go  to  the  Institute,  the  others  will 
pass  the  night  at  tne  Mountain  House.  I  shall 
stay  here,  myself:  it  is  not  at  ah  likely  that 
anything  will  come  of  these  warnings ;  but  if 


566 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


there  should,  I  choose  to  be  here  and  take  mj 
chance.” 

It  needs  little,  generally,  to  frighten  servants 
and  they  were  all  ready  enough  to  go.  The 
poor  relation  was  one  of  the  timid  sort,  and 
was  terribly  uneasy  to  be  got  out  of  the  house. 
This  left  no  alternative,  of  course,  for  Helen, 
but  to  go  also.  They  all  urged  upon  Dudley 
Venner  to  go  with  them :  if  there  was  danger, 
why  should  he  remain  to  risk  it,  when  he  sent 
away  the  others? 

Old  Sophy  said  nothing  until  the  time  came 
for  her  to  go  with  the  second  of  Elbridge’s  car¬ 
riage-loads. 

K  Come,  Sophy,”  said  Dudley  Venner,  “  get 
your  things  and  go.  They  will  take  good  care 
of  you  at  the  Mountain  House;  and  when  we 
have  made  sure  that  there  is  no  real  danger 
you  shall  come  back  at  once.” 

“  No,  Massa !  ”  Sophy  answered.  “  I’ve  seen 
Elsie  into  th’  ground,  ’n’  I  a’n’t  goin’  away  to 
come  back  ’n’  fin’  Massa  Venner  buried  under 
th’  rocks.  My  darlin’  ’s  gone  ;  ’n’  now,  if  Massa 
goes,  ’n’  th’  ol’  place  goes,  it’s  time  for  Ol’  Sophy 
to  go,  too.  No,  Massa  Venner,  we’ll  both  stay 
in  th’  ol’  mansion  ’n’  wait  for  th’  Lord !  ” 

Nothing  could  change  the  old  woman’s  deter¬ 
mination  ;  and  her  master,  who  only  feared,  but 
did  not  really  expect  the  long-deferred  catastro* 
phe,  was  obliged  to  consent  to  her  staying.  The 
sudden  drying  of  the  well  at  such  a  time  was  the 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


567 


most  alarming  sign ;  for  he  remembered  that  the 
same  thing  had  been  observed  just  before  great 
mountain-slides.  This  Long  rain,  too,  was  juso 
the  kind  of  cause  which  was  likely  to  looser 
the  strata  of  rock  piled  up  in  the  ledges ;  if  the 
dreaded  event  should  ever  come  to  pass,  it  would 
be  at  such  a  time. 

He  paced  his  chamber  uneasily  until  long  past 
midnight.  If  the  morning  came  without  accident, 
he  meant  to  have  a  careful  examination  made  of 
all  the  rents  and  fissures  above,  of  their  direction 
and  extent,  and  especially  whether,  in  case  of  a 
mountain-slide,  the  huge  masses  would  be  like  to 
reach  so  far  to  the  east  and  so  low  down  the 
declivity  as  the  mansion. 

At  two  o’clock  in  the  morning  he  was  dozing 
in  his  chair.  Old  Sophy  had  lain  down  on  her 
bed,  and  was  muttering  in  troubled  dreams. 

All  at  once  a  loud  crash  seemed  to  rend  the 
very  heavens  above  them :  a  crack  as  of  the 
thunder  that  follows  close  upon  the  bolt,  —  a 
rending  and  crushing  as  of  a  forest  snapped 
through  all  its  stems,  tom,  twisted,  splintered, 
dragged  with  all  its  ragged  boughs  into  one 
chaotic  ruin.  The  ground  trembled  under  them 
as  in  an  earthquake ;  the  old  mansion  shuddered 
bo  that  all  its  windows  chattered  in  their  case¬ 
ments  ;  the  great  chimney  shook  off  its  heavy 
cap-stones,  which  came  down  on  the  roof  with 
resounding  concussions ;  and  the  echoes  of  The 
Mountain  roared  and  bellowed  in  long  reduplica^ 


568 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


tion,  as  if  its  whole  foundations  were  rent,  and 
this  were  the  terrible  voice  of  its  dissolution. 

Dudley  Venner  rose  from  his  chair,  folded  his 
arms,  and  awaited  his  fate.  There  was  no  know¬ 
ing  where  to  look  for  safety ;  and  he  remembered 
too  well  the  story  of  the  family  that  was  lost  by 
rushing  out  of  the  house,  and  so  hurrying  into 
the  very  jaws  of  death. 

He  had  stood  thus  but  for  a  moment,  when 
he  heard  the  voice  of  Old  Sophy  in  a  wild  cry  of 
terror : — 

“  It’s  th’  Las’  Day !  It’s  th’  Las’  Day !  The 
Lord  is  cornin’  to  take  us  all !  ” 

“  Sophy !  ”  he  called ;  but  she  did  not  hear  him 
or  heed  him,  and  rushed  out  of  the  house. 

The  worst  danger  was  over.  If  they  were  to 
be  destroyed,  it  would  necessarily  be  in  a  few 
seconds  from  the  first  thrill  of  the  terrible  con¬ 
vulsion.  He  waited  in  awful  suspense,  but  calm. 
Not  more  than  one  or  two  minutes  could  have 
passed  before  the  frightful  tumult  and  all  its 
sounding  echoes  had  ceased.  He  called  Old  So~ 
phy;  but  she  did  not  answer.  He  went  to  the 
western  window  and  looked  forth  into  the  dark¬ 
ness.  He  could  not  distinguish  the  outlines  of 
the  landscape,  but  the  white  stone  was  clearly 
visible,  and  by  its  side  the  new-made  mound. 
Nay,  what  was  that  which  obscured  its  outline, 
in  shape  like  a  human  figure  ?  He  flung  open 
the  window  and  sprang  through.  It  was  all  that 
there  was  left  of  poor  Old  Sophy,  stretched  out 
ifeless,  upon  her  darling’s  grave. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


569 


He  had  scarcely  composed  her  limbs  and  drawn 
the  sheet  over  her,  when  the  neighbors  began  to 
arrive  from  all  directions.  Each  was  expecting 
to  hear  of  houses  overwhelmed  and  families  de¬ 
stroyed  ;  but  each  came  with  the  story  that  his 
own  household  was  safe.  It  was  not  until  the 
morning  dawned  that  the  true  nature  and  extent 
of  the  sudden  movement  was  ascertained.  A 
great  seam  had  opened  above  the  long  cliff,  and 
the  terrible  Rattlesnake  Ledge,  with  all  its  en¬ 
venomed  reptiles,  its  dark  fissures  and  black  cav¬ 
erns,  was  buried  forever  beneath  a  mighty  in* 
cumbent  mass  of  ruin. 


570 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

MR.  SILAS  PECKHAM  RENDERS  HIS  ACCOUNT. 

The  morning  rose  clear  and  bright.  The  long 
Btorm  was  over,  and  the  calm  autumnal  sunshine 
was  now  to  return,  with  all  its  infinite  repose  and 
sweetness.  With  the  earliest  dawn  exploring 
parties  were  out  in  every  direction  along  the 
southern  slope  of  The  Mountain,  tracing  the 
ravages  of  the  great  slide  and  the  track  it  had 
followed.  It  proved  to  be  not  so  much  a  slide 
as  the  breaking  off  and  falling  of  a  vast  line  of 
cliff,  including  the  dreaded  Ledge.  It  had  folded 
over  like  the  leaves  of  a  half-opened  book  when 
they  close,  crushing  the  trees  below,  piling  it? 
ruins  in  a  glacis  at  the  foot  of  what  had  been 
the  overhanging  wall  of  the  cliff,  and  filling  up 
that  deep  cavity  above  the  mansion-house  which 
bore  the  ill-omened  name  of  Dead  Man’s  Hollow. 
This  it  was  which  had  saved  the  Dudley  man¬ 
sion.  The  falling  masses,  or  huge  fragments 
breaking  off  from  them,  would  have  swept  the 
house  and  all  around  it  to  destruction  but  for 
this  deep  shelving  dell,  into  which  the  stream 
of  ruin  was  happily  directed.  It  was,  indeed, 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


571 


one  of  Nature’s  conservative  revolutions ;  for  the 
fallen  masses  made  a  kind  of  shelf,  which  in¬ 
terposed  a  level  break  between  the  inclined  planes 
above  and  below  it,  so  that  the  nightmare-fancies 
of  the  dwellers  in  the  Dudley  mansion,  and  in 
many  other  residences  under  the  shadow  of  The 
Mountain,  need  not  keep  them  lying  awake  here¬ 
after  to  listen  for  the  snapping  of  roots  and  the 
splitting  of  the  rocks  above  them. 

Twenty-four  hours  after  the  falling  of  the  cliff, 
it  seemed  as  if  it  had  happened  ages  ago.  The 
new  fact  had  fitted  itself  in  with  all  the  old  pre¬ 
dictions,  forebodings,  fears,  and  acquired  the  soli¬ 
darity  belonging  to  all  events  which  have  slipped 
out  of  the  fingers  of  Time  and  dissolved  in  the 
antecedent  eternity. 

Old  Sophy  wras  lying  dead  in  the  Dudley  man¬ 
sion.  If  there  were  tears  shed  for  her,  they  could 
not  be  bitter  ones ;  for  she  had  lived  out  her  full 
measure  of  days,  and  gone — who  could  help 
fondly  believing  it  ?  — to  rejoin  her  beloved  mis¬ 
tress.  They  made  a  place  for  her  at  the  foot  of 
the  two  mounds.  It  wras  thus  she  would  have 
chosen  to  sleep,  and  not  to  have  wronged  her 
humble  devotion  in  life  by  asking  to  lie  at  the 
side  of  those  whom  she  had  served  so  long  and 
faithfully.  There  were  very  few  present  at  the 
simple  ceremony.  Helen  Darley  was  one  of 
these  few.  The  old  black  woman  had  been  her 
companion  in  all  the  kind  offices  of  which  she 
had  been  the  ministering  angel  to  Elsie. 


572 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


After  it  was  all  over,  Helen  was  leaving  with 
the  rest,  when  Dudley  Venner  begged  her  to 
stay  a  little,  and  he  would  send  her  back :  it  was 
a  long  walk ;  besides,  he  wished  to  say  some 
things  to  her,  which  he  had  not  had  the  oppor* 
tunity  of  speaking.  Of  course  Helen  could  not 
refuse  him ;  there  must  be  many  thoughts  com¬ 
ing  into  his  mind  which  he  would  wish  to  share 
with  her  who  had  known  his  daughter  so  long 
and  been  with  her  in  her  last  days. 

She  returned  into  the  great  parlor  with  the 
wrought  cornices  and  the  medallion-portraits  on 
the  ceiling. 

“  I  am  now  alone  in  the  world,”  Dudley  Ven- 
ner  said. 

Helen  must  have  known  that  before  he  spoke. 
But  the  tone  in  which  he  said  it  had  so  much 
meaning,  that  she  could  not  find  a  word  to  an¬ 
swer  him  with.  They  sat  in  silence,  which  the 
old  tall  clock  counted  out  in  long  seconds ;  but 
it  was  silence  which  meant  more  than  any 
words  they  had  ever  spoken. 

“  Alone  in  the  world.  Helen,  the  freshness  of 
my  life  is  gone,  and  there  is  little  left  of  the  few 
graces  which  in  my  younger  days  might  have 
fitted  me  to  win  the  love  of  women.  Listen  to 
me,  —  kindly,  if  you  can ;  fcrgive  me,  at  least. 
Half  my  life  has  been  passed  in  constant  fear 
and  anguish,  without  any  near  friend  to  share 
my  trials.  My  task  is  done  now ;  my  fears  have 
ceased  to  prey  upon  me ;  the  sharpness  of  earlj 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


57d 


Borrows  has  yielded  something  of  its  edge  to 
time.  You  have  bound  me  to  you  by  gratitude 
in  the  tender  care  you  have  taken  of  my  poor 
child.  More  than  this.  I  must  tell  you  all  now, 
out  of  the  depth  of  this  trouble  through  which 
I  am  passing.  I  have  loved  you  from  the  mo¬ 
ment  we  first  met ;  and  if  my  life  has  anything 
left,  worth  accepting,  it  is  yours.  Will  you  taka 
the  offered  gift  ?  ” 

Helen  looked  in  his  face,  surprised,  bewildered. 

“This  is  not  for  me,  —  not  for  me,”  she  said. 
M  I  am  but  a  poor  faded  flower,  not  worth  the 
gathering  of  such  a  one  as  you.  No,  no,  —  I 
have  been  bred  to  humble  toil  all  my  days,  and 
I  could  not  be  to  you  what  you  ought  to  ask.  1 
am  accustomed  to  a  kind  of  loneliness  and  self- 
dependence.  I  have  seen  nothing,  almost,  of  the 
world,  such  as  you  were  born  to  move  in.  Leave 
me  to  my  obscure  place  and  duties ;  I  shall  at 
least  have  peace;  —  and  you  —  you  will  surely 
find  in  due  time  some  one  better  fitted  by  Nature 
and  training  to  make  you  happy.” 

“No,  Miss  Darley!”  Dudley  Venner  said,  al¬ 
most  sternly.  “  You  must  not  speak  to  a  man, 
who  has  lived  through  my  experiences,  of  looking 
about  for  a  new  choice  after  his  heart  has  once 
chosen.  Bay  that  you  can  never  love  me ;  say 
that  I  have  lived  too  long  to  share  your  young 
fife ;  say  that  sorrow  has  left  nothing  in  me  for 
Love  to  find  his  pleasure  in;  but  do  not  mock 
me  with  the  hope  of  a  new  affection  for  some  un» 


574 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


known  object.  The  first  look  of  yours  brought 
me  to  your  side.  The  first  tone  of  your  voice 
sunk  into  my  heart.  From  this  moment  my  life 
muslr  wither  out  or  bloom  anew.  My  home  is 
desolate.  Come  under  my  roof  and  make  it 
bright  once  more,  —  share  my  life  with  me,  —  or 
I  shall  give  the  halls  of  the  old  mansion  to  the 
bats  and  the  owls,  and  wander  forth  alone  with¬ 
out  a  hope  or  a  friend  !  ” 

To  find  herself  with  a  man’s  future  at  the  dis¬ 
posal  of  a  single  word  of  hers  !  —  a  man  like  this, 
too,  with  a  fascination  for  her  against  which  she 
had  tried  to  shut  her  heart,  feeling  that  he  lived 
in  another  sphere  than  hers,  working  as  she  was 
for  her  bread,  a  poor  operative  in  the  factory  of 
a  hard  master  and  jealous  overseer,  the  salaried 
drudge  of  Mr.  Silas  Peckham !  Why,  she  had 
thought  he  was  grateful  to  her  as  a  friend  of  his 
daughter ;  she  had  even  pleased  herself  with  the 
feeling  that  he  liked  her,  in  her  humble  place,  as 
a  woman  of  some  cultivation  and  many  sympa¬ 
thetic  points  of  relation  with  himself;  but  that  he 
loved  her,  —  that  this  deep,  fine  nature,  in  a  man 
so  far  removed  from  her  in  outward  circum¬ 
stance,  should  have  found  its  counterpart  in  one 
whom  life  had  treated  so  coldly  as  herself, — 
that  Dudley  Yenner  should  stake  his  happiness 
on  a  breath  of  hers,  —  poor  Helen  Darley’s,  —  it 
was  all  a  surprise,  a  confusion,  a  kind  of  fear 
not  wholly  fearful.  Ah,  me!  women  know  wha? 
it  is, —  that  mist  over  the  eyes,  that  trembling  ic 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


575 


tfle  limbs,  that  faltering  of  the  voice,  that  sweet, 
ihame-faced,  unspoken  confession  of  weakness 
which  does  not  wish  to  be  strong,  that  sudden 
overflow  in  the  soul  where  thoughts  loose  their 
hold  on  each  other  and  swim  single  and  helpless 
in  the  flood  of  emotion,  —  women  know  what 
it  is! 

No  doubt  she  was  a  little  frightened  and  a 
good  deal  bewildered,  and  that  her  sympathies 
were  warmly  excited  for  a  friend  to  whom  she 
had  been  brought  so  near,  and  whose  loneliness 
she  saw  and  pitied.  She  lost  that  calm  self-pos¬ 
session  she  had  hoped  to  maintain. 

“  If  I  thought  that  I  could  make  you  happy,  — 
if  I  should  speak  from  my  heart,  and  not  my  rea¬ 
son,  —  I  am  but  a  weak  woman,  —  yet  if  I  can 
be  to  you -  What  can  I  say  ?  ” 

What  more  could  this  poor,  dear  Helen  say  ? 

“  Elbridge,  harness  the  horses  and  take  Miss 
Darley  back  to  the  school.” 

What  conversation  had  taken  place  since  Hel¬ 
en’s  rhetorical  failure  is  not  recorded  in  the  min¬ 
utes  from  which  this  narrative  is  constructed.  But 
when  the  man  who  had  been  summoned  had  gone 
to  get  the  carriage  ready,  Helen  resumed  some¬ 
thing  she  had  been  speaking  of. 

“  Not  for  the  world .  Everything  must  go  on 
just  as  it  has  gone  on,  fotf  the  present.  There 
are  proprieties  to  be  consulted.  I  cannot  be  hard 
with  you,  that  out  of  your  very  affliction  ha# 


570 


ELSIE  \ENXER. 


sprung  this  —  this  —  well  —  you  must  name  it 
for  me,  —  but  the  world  will  never  listen  to  ex> 
planations.  I  am  to  be  Helen  Darley,  lady  as¬ 
sistant  in  Mr.  Silas  Peckham’s  school,  as  .long  as 
I  see  fit  to  hold  my  office.  And  I  mean  to  at¬ 
tend  to  my  scholars  just  as  before  ;  so  that  I  shall 
have  vcr)  little  time  for  visiting  or  seeing  com¬ 
pany.  I  believe,  though,  you  are  one  of  the 
Trustees  and  a  Member  of  the  Examining  Com¬ 
mittee  ;  so  that,  if  you  should  happen  to  visit  the 
school,  I  shall  try  to  be  civil  to  you.” 

Every  lady  sees,  of  course,  that  Helen  was 
quite  right ;  but  perhaps  here  and  there  one  will 
think  that  Dudley  Venner  was  all  wrong,  —  that 
he  was  too  hasty,  —  that  he  should  have  been 
too  full  of  his  recent  grief  for  such  a  confession 
as  he  has  just  made,  and  the  passion  from  which 
it  sprung.  Perhaps  they  do  not  understand  the 
sudden  recoil  of  a  strong  nature  long  compressed. 
Perhaps  they  have  not  studied  the  mystery  of 
allotropism  in  the  emotions  of  the  human  heart. 
Go  to  the  nearest  chemist  and  ask  him  to  show 
you  some  of  the  dark-red  phosphorus  which  will 
not  bum  without  fierce  heating,  but  at  500°, 
Fahrenheit,  changes  back  again  to  the  inflam¬ 
mable  substance  we  know  so  well.  Grief  seems 
more  like  ashes  than  like  fire ;  but  as  grief  has 
been  love  once,  so  it  may  become  love  again. 
This  is  emotional  allotropism. 

Helen  rede  back  to  the  Institute  and  inquired 
for  Mr.  Petkham.  She  had  not  seen  him  during 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


577 


the  brief  interval  between  her  departure  from  the 
mansion-house  and  her  return  to  Old  Sophy’s 
funeral.  There  were  various  questions  about  the 
school  she  wished  to  ask. 

“Oh,  how’s  your  haalth,  Miss  Darley?  ”  Silas 
began.  “  We’ve  missed  you  consid’able.  Glad 
to  see  you  back  at  the  post  of  dooty.  Hope  the 
Squire  treated  you  hahnsomely, —  liberal  pecoon- 
iary  compensation,  —  hey  ?  A’n’t  much  of  a 
loser,  I  guess,  by  acceptin’  his  propositions  ?  ” 

Helen  blushed  at  this  last  question,  as  if  Silas 
had  meant  something  by  it  beyond  asking  what 
money  she  had  received  ;  but  his  own  double- 
meaning  expression  and  her  blush  were  too  nice 
points  for  him  to  have  taken  cognizance  of.  He 
was  engaged  in  a  mental  calculation  as  to  the 
amount  of  the  deduction  he  should  make  under 
the  head  of  “  demage  to  the  institootion,”  —  this 
depending  somewhat  on  that  of  the  “  pecooniary 
compensation  ”  she  might  have  received  for  her 
services  as  the  friend  of  Elsie  Venner. 

So  Helen  slid  back  at  once  into  her  routine, 
the  same  faithful,  patient  creature  she  had  al¬ 
ways  been.  But  what  was  this  new  light  which 
seemed  to  have  kindled  in  her  eyes  ?  What  was 
this  look  of  peace,  which  nothing  could  disturb, 
which  smiled  serenely  through  all  the  little  mean¬ 
nesses  with  which  the  daily  life  of  the  educational 
factory  surrounded  her, — which  not  only  made 
her  seem  resigned,  but  overflowed  all  her  feat¬ 
ures  with  a  thoughtful,  subdued  happiness  ?  Mr. 


578 


ELSIE  VENISTER. 


Bernard  did  not  know,  —  perhaps  he  did  not 
guess.  The  inmates  of  the  Dudley  mansion  were 
not  scandalized  by  any  mysterious  visits  of  a 
veiled  or  unveiled  lady.  The  vibrating  tongues 
of  the  u  female  youth  ”  of  the  Institute  were 
not  set  in  motion  by  the  standing  of  an  equipage 
at  the  gate,  waiting  for  their  lady  teacher.  The 
servants  at  the  mansion  did  not  convey  numer¬ 
ous  letters  with  superscriptions  in  a  bold,  manly 
hand,  sealed  with  the  arms  of  a  well-known 
house,  and  directed  to  Miss  Helen  Darley;  nor, 
on  the  other  hand,  did  Hiram,  the  man  from  the 
lean  streak  in  New  Hampshire,  carry  sweet-smell¬ 
ing,  rose-hued,  many-layered,  criss-crossed,  fine- 
stitch-lettered  packages  of  note-paper  directed  to 
Dudley  Venner,  Esq.,  and  all  too  scanty  to  hold 
that  incredible  expansion  of  the  famous  three 
words  which  a  woman  was  born  to  say,  —  that 
perpetual  miracle  which  astonishes  all  the  go- 
betweens  who  wear  their  shoes  out  in  carrying  a 
woman’s  infinite  variations  on  the  theme,  “  I  love 
you.” 

But  the  reader  must  remember  that  there  are 
walks  in  country-towns  where  people  are  liable 
to  meet  by  accident,  and  that  the  hollow  of  an 
old  tree  has  served  the  purpose  of  a  post-oflice 
sometimes ;  so  that  he  has  her  choice  (to  divide 
the  pronouns  impartially)  of  various  hypotheses 
to  account  for  the  new  glory  of  happiness  which 
seemed  to  have  irradiated  our  poor  Helen’s  feat¬ 
ures,  as  if  her  dreary  life  were  awakening  in  th« 
dawn  of  a  blessed  future. 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


579 


With  all  the  alleviations  which  have  been 
hinted  at,  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  thought  that  the 
days  and  the  weeks  had  never  moved  so  slowly 
as  through  the  last  period  of  the  autumn  that  was 
passing.  Elsie  had  been  a  perpetual  source  of 
anxiety  to  him,  but  still  she  had  been  a  com' 
panion.  He  could  not  mourn  for  her;  for  he 
felt  that  she  was  safer  with  her  mother,  in  that 
world  where  there  are  no  more  sorrows  and  dan¬ 
gers,  than  she  could  have  been  with  him.  But 
as  he  sat  at  his  window  and  looked  at  the  three 
mounds,  the  loneliness  of  the  great  house  made 
it  seem  more  like  the  sepulchre  than  these  nar¬ 
row  dwellings  where  his  beloved  and  her  daugh¬ 
ter  lay  close  to  each  other,  side  by  side,  —  Cat¬ 
alina,  the  bride  of  his  youth,  and  Elsie,  the  child 
whom  he  had  nurtured,  with  poor  Old  Sophy, 
who  had  followed  them  like  a  black  shadow,  at 
their  feet,  under  the  same  soft  turf,  sprinkled  with 
the  brown  autumnal  leaves.  It  was  not  good 
for  him  to  be  thus  alone.  How  should  he  ever 
Jive  through  the  long  months  of  November  and 
December  ? 

The  months  of  November  and  December  did, 
in  some  way  or  other,  get  rid  of  themselves  at 
tast,  bringing  with  them  the  usual  events  of  vil¬ 
lage-life  and  a  few  unusual  ones.  Some  of  the 
geologists  had  been  up  to  look  at  the  great 
slide,  of  which  they  gave  those  prolix  accounts 
which  everybody  remembers  who  read  the  scien¬ 
tific  journals  of  the  time.  The  engineers  re- 


580 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


ported  that  there  was  little  probability  of  an) 
further  convulsion  along  the  line  of  rocks  which 
overhung  the  more  thickly  settled  part  of  the 
town.  The  naturalists  drew  up  a  paper  on  the 
“  Probable  Extinction  of  the  Crotalus  Durissus 
in  the  Township  of  Rockland.”  The  engage¬ 
ment  of  the  Widow  Rowens  to  a  Little  Million- 
ville  merchant  was  announced,  —  “  Sudding  ’n’ 
onexpected,”  Widow  Leech  said, —  “  waalthy,  or 
she  wouldn’t  ha’  looked  at  him,  —  fifty  year  old, 
if  he  is  a  day,  W  ha'nH  got  a  white  liair  in  his 
heady  The  Reverend  Chauncy  Fair  weather 
had  publicly  announced  that  he  was  going  to 
join  the  Roman  Catholic  communion,  —  not  so 
much  to  the  surprise  or  consternation  of  the  re¬ 
ligious  world  as  he  had  supposed.  Several  old 
ladies  forthwith  proclaimed  their  intention  of 
following  him ;  but,  as  one  or  two  of  them  were 
deaf,  and  another  had  been  threatened  with  an 
attack  of  that  mild,  but  obstinate  complaint,  de *■ 
mentia  senilis ,  many  thought  it  was  not  ^o  much 
the  force  of  his  arguments  as  a  kind  of  ten¬ 
dency  to  jump  as  the  bellwether  jumps,  well 
known  in  flocks  not  included  in  the  Christian 
fold.  His  bereaved  congregation  immediately 
began  pulling  candidates  on  and  off,  like  ne\< 
boots,  on  trial.  Some  pinched  in  tender  places , 
some  were  too  loose ;  some  were  too  square- 
toed  ;  some  were  too  coarse,  and  didn’t  please- 
Borne  were  too  thin,  and  wouldn’t  last;  —  in 
abort,  they  couldn’t  possibly  find  a  fit.  At  Iasi 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


581 


people  began  to  drop  in  to  hear  old  Doctor 
Honey  wood.  They  were  quite  surprised  to  find 
what  a  human  old  gentleman  he  was,  and  went 
back  and  told  the  others,  that,  instead  of  being 
a  case  of  confluent  sectarianism,  as  they  sup¬ 
posed,  the  good  old  minister  had  been  so  well 
vaccinated  with  charitable  virus  that  he  was 
now  a  true,  open-souled  Christian  of  the  mildest 
type.  The  end  of  all  which  was,  that  the  liberal 
people  went  over  to  the  old  minister  almost  in 
a  body,  just  at  the  time  that  Deacon  Shearei 
and  the  “  Vinegar-Bible  ”  party  split  off,  and  that 
not  long  afterwards  they  sold  their  own  meet¬ 
ing-house  to  the  malecontents,  so  that  Deacon 
Soper  used  often  to  remind  Colonel  Sprowle  of 
his  wish  that  “  our  little  man  and  him  [the  Rev. 
erend  Doctor]  would  swop  pulpits,”  and  tell  him 
it  had  “  pooty  nigh  come  trew.” — But  this  is 
anticipating  the  course  of  events,  which  wer<? 
much  longer  in  coming  about;  for  we  have  but 
^ust  got  through  that  terrible  long  month,  as  Mr> 
Dudley  Venner  found  it,  of  December. 

On  the  first  of  January,  Mr.  Silas  Peckham 
was  in  the  habit  of  settling  his  quarterly  ac¬ 
counts,  and  making  such  new  arrangements  as 
nis  convenience  or  interest  dictated.  New-Yeai 
Was  a  holiday  at  the  Institute.  No  doubt  this 
accounted  for  Helen’s  being  dressed  so  charm¬ 
ingly, —  always,  to  be  sure  in  her  own  simple 
Way,  but  yet  with  such  a  true  lady’s  air,  that 
she  looked  fit  to  be  the  mistress  of  any  mansion 
in  fhe  land. 


ELSIE  YEXNER. 


bS2 

She  was  in  the  parlor  alone,  a  little  before 
noon,  when  Mr.  Peckham  came  in. 

“  I’m  ready  to  settle  my  accaount  with  you 
now,  Miss  Darley,”  said  Silas. 

“  As  you  please,  Mr.  Peckham,”  Helen  an¬ 
swered,  very  graciously. 

“  Before  payin’  you  your  selary,”  the  Principal 
continued,  u  I  wish  to  come  to  an  understandin’ 
as  1o  the  futur’.  I  consider  that  I’ve  been 
payin’  high,  very  high,  for  the  work  you  do. 
Women’s  wages  can’t  be  expected  to  do  more 
than  feed  and  clothe  ’em,  as  a  gineral  thing, 
with  a  little  savin’,  in  case  of  sickness,  and  to 
bury  ’em,  if  they  break  daown,  as  all  of  ’em 
are  liable  to  do  at  any  time.  If  I  a’n’t  misin¬ 
formed,  you  not  only  support  yourself  out  of 
my  establishment,  but  likewise  relatives  of  yours, 
who  I  don’t  know  that  I’m  called  upon  to  feed  and 
clothe.  There  is  a  young  woman,  not  burdened 
with  destitute  relatives,  has  signified  that  she 
Would  be  glad  to  take  your  dooties  for  less  pecoon- 
iary  compensation,  by  a  consid’able  amaount,  than 
you  now  receive.  I  shall  be  willin’,  however,  to 
retain  your  services  at  sech  redooced  rate  as  we 
shall  fix  upon,  —  provided  sech  redooced  rate  be 
as  low  or  lower  than  the  same  services  can  be 
Obtained  elsewhere.” 

“As  you  please,  Mr.  Peckham,”  Helen  answered, 
With  a  smile  so  sweet  that  the  Principal  (who 
of  course  had  trumped  up  this  opposition-teachej 
for  the  occasion)  said  to  himself  she  would 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


583 


Bland  being  cut  down  a  quarter,  perhaps  a  half, 
of  her  salary. 

“  Here  is  your  accaount,  Miss  Darley,  and  the 
balance  doo  you,”  said  Silas  Peckham,  handing 
her  a  paper  and  a  small  roll  of  infectious-tla- 
vored  bills  wrapping  six  poisonous  coppers  o i 
the  old  coinage. 

She  took  the  paper  and  began  looking  at  it. 
She  could  not  quite  make  up  her  mind  to  touch 
the  feverish  bills  with  the  cankering  coppers  in 
them,  and  left  them  airing  themselves  on  the 
table. 

The  document  she  held  ran  as  follows: 

Silas  Peckham ,  Esq.,  Principal  of  the  Apollinean  Institute , 

In  Account  with  Helen  Darley,  Assist.  Teacher . 

Dr.  Cr. 

To  Salary  for  quarter  By  Deduction  for  ab¬ 
ending  Jan.  1st,  @  sence,  1  week  3  days  $10.00 

$75  per  quarter  .  $75.00  44  Board,  lodging,  etc., 

for  10  days,  @  75 
cts.  per  day  ...  7.50 

“Damage  to  Institu¬ 
tion  by  absence  of 
teacher  from  duties, 


say . 

44  Stationery  furnished 

43 

44  PDstage-stamp  .  . 

01 

44  Balance  due  Helen 

Darley . 

32.06 

$75.0(1 

Rockland,  Jan.  1st,  1859. 

Now  Helen  had  her  own  private  reasons  foi 


584 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


wishing  to  receive  the  small  sum  which  was  due 
her  at  this  time  without  any  unfair  deduction 

—  reasons  which  we  need  not  inquire  into  too 
particularly,  as  we  may  be  very  sure  that  they 
were  right  and  womanly.  So,  when  she  looked 
over  this  account  of  Mr.  Silas  Feckham’s,  and 
saw  that  he  had  contrived  to  pare  down  hei 
salary  to  something  less  than  half  its  stipulated 
amount,  the  look  which  her  countenance  wore 
was  as  near  to  that  of  righteous  indignation  as 
her  gentle  features  and  soft  blue  eyes  would 
admit  of  its  being. 

“  Why,  Mr.  Peckham  ”  she  said,  u  do  you  mean 
this  ?  If  I  am  of  so  much  value  to  you  that  you 
must  take  off  twenty-five  dollars  for  ten  days’  ab¬ 
sence,  how  is  it  that  my  salary  is  to  be  cut  down 
to  less  than  seventy -five  dollars  a  quarter,  if  I  re¬ 
main  here  ?  ” 

“  I  gave  you  fair  notice,”  said  Silas.  “  I  have 
a  minute  of  it  I  took  down  immed’ately  after  the 
intervoo” 

He  lugged  out  his  large  pocket-book  with  the 
strap  going  all  round  it,  and  took  from  it  a  slip  of 
paper  which  confirmed  his  statement. 

“  Besides,”  he  added,  slyly,  “  I  presoom  you 
have  received  a  liberal  pecooniary  compensation 
from  Squire  Yenner  for  nussin’  his  daughter.” 

Helen  was  looking  over  the  bill  while  he  wa» 
ipeaking. 

“  Board  and  lodging  for  ten  days,  Mr.  Peckham 

—  whose  board  and  lodging,  pray  ?  ” 


ELSIE  YENNEK. 


585 


The  dooT  opened  before  Silas  Peckham  could 
answer,  and  Mr.  Bernard  walked  into  the  parlor. 
Helen  was  holding  the  bill  in  her  hand,  looking 
as  any  woman  ought  to  look  who  has  been  at 
once  wronged  and  insulted. 

u  The  last  turn  of  the  thumbscrew !  ”  said  Mr. 
Bernard  to  himself.  “  What  is  it,  Helen  ?  You 
look  troubled.’’ 

She  handed  him  the  account. 

He  looked  at  the  footing  of  it.  Then  he 
looked  at  the  items.  Then  he  looked  at  Silas 
Peckham. 

At  this  moment  Silas  was  sublime.  He  was 
so  transcendently  unconscious  of  the  emotions 
going  on  in  Mr.  Bernard’s  mind  at  the  moment, 
that  he  had  only  a  single  thought. 

"  The  accaount’s  correc’ly  cast,  I  presoom  ;  — 
Vf  the’  ’s  any  mistake  of  figgers  or  addin’  ’em  up, 
it’ll  be  made  all  right.  Ever}  thing’s  accordin’  to 
agreement.  The  minute  written  immed’ately  af¬ 
ter  the  intervoo  is  here  in  my  possession.” 

Mr.  Bernard  looked  at  Helen.  Just  what  would 
have  happened  to  Silas  Peckham,  as  he  stood 
then  and  there,  but  for  the  interposition  of  a 
merciful  Providence,  nobody  knows  or  ever  will 
know ;  for  at  that  moment  steps  were  heard  upon 
the  stairs,  and  Hiram  threw  open  the  parlor-door 
for  Mr.  Dudley  Venner  to  enter. 

He  saluted  them  all  gracefully  with  the  good- 
wishes  of  the  season,  and  elf£h  of  them  returned 
feis  compliment,  —  Helen  blushing  fearfully,  of 


586 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


course,  but  not  particularly  noticed  in  her  embar* 
rassment  by  more  than  one. 

Silas  Peckham  reckoned  with  perfect  confi¬ 
dence  on  his  Trustees,  who  had  always  said 
what  he  told  them  to,  and  done  what  he  wanted. 
It  was  a  good  chance  now  to  show  off  his  power, 
and,  by  letting  his  instructors  know  the  unstable 
tenure  of  their  offices,  make  it  easier  to  settle  his 
accounts  and  arrange  his  salaries.  There  was 
nothing  very  strange  in  Mr.  Yenner’s  calling;  he 
was  one  of  the  Trustees,  and  this  was  New  Year’s 
Day.  But  he  had  called  just  at  the  lucky  moment 
for  Mr.  Peckham’s  object. 

“  I  have  thought  some  of  makin’  changes  in  the 
department  of  instruction,”  he  began.  “  Several 
accomplished  teachers  have  applied  to  me,  who 
would  be  glad  of  sitooations.  I  understand 
that  there  never  have  been  so  many  fust-rate 
teachers,  male  and  female,  out  of  employment 
as  doorin’  the  present  season.  If  I  can  make 
Bahtisfahctory  arrangements  with  my  present 
corpse  of  teachers,  I  shall  be  glad  to  do  so ; 
otherwise  I  shell,  with  the  permission  of  the 
Trustees,  make  sech  noo  arrangements  as  cir- 
cumstahnces  compel.” 

u  You  may  make  arrangements  for  a  new  as- 
listant  in  my  department,  Mr.  Peckham,”  said 
Mr.  Bernard,  “  at  once,  —  this  day,  —  this  hour 
l  am  not  safe  to  be  trusted  with  your  person  five 
minutes  out  of  g :■  lady’s  presence,  —  of  whorri 
bbeg  pardon  for  this  strong  language.  Mr.  Yen- 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


587 


Her,  1  must  beg  you,  as  one  of  the  Trustees  of 
this  Institution,  to  look  at  the  manner  in  which 
its  Principal  has  attempted  to  swindle  this  faith« 
ful  teacher  whose  toils  and  sacrifices  and  self* 
devotion  to  the  school  have  made  it  all  that  it  is, 
in  spite  of  this  miserable  trader's  incompetence. 
Will  you  look  at  the  paper  I  hold?” 

Dudley  Venner  took  the  account  and  read  it 
through,  without  changing  a  feature.  Then  he 
turned  to  Silas  Peckham. 

“  You  may  make  arrangements  for  a  new  as« 
sistant  in  the  branches  this  lady  has  taught.  Miss 
Helen  Darley  is  to  be  my  wife.  I  had  hoped  to 
have  announced  this  news  in  a  less  abrupt  and 
ungraceful  manner.  But  I  came  to  tell  you  with 
my  own  lips  what  you  would  have  learned  before 
evening  from  my  friends  in  the  village.” 

Mr.  Bernard  went  to  Helen,  who  stood  silent, 
with  downcast  eyes,  and  took  her  hand  warmly, 
hoping  she  might  find  all  the  happiness  she  de¬ 
served.  Then  he  turned  to  Dudley  Venner,  and 
said,  — 

“  She  is  a  queen,  but  has  never  found  it  out 
The  world  has  nothing  nobler  than  this  dear 
woman,  whom  you  have  discovered  in  the  dis¬ 
guise  of  a  teacher.  God  bless  her  and  you!” 

Dudley  Venner  returned  his  friendly  grasp-, 
Without  answering  a  word  in  articulate  speech, 

Silas  remained  dumb  and  aghast  for  a  brief 
ipace.  Coming  to  himself  a  little,  he  thought 
there  might  have  been  some  mistake  about  the 


583 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


items,  —  would  like  to  have  Miss  Parley’s  bill 
returned,  —  would  make  it  all  right,  —  had  no 
idee  that  Squire  Venner  had  a  special  int’rest 
in  Miss  Parley,  —  was  sorry  he  had  given  of¬ 
fence, —  if  he  might  take  that  bill  and  look  it 
over  — — 

"  No,  Mr.  Peckham,”  said  Mr.  Pudley  Venner 
“  there  will  be  a  full  meeting  of  the  Board  next 
week;  and  the  bill,  and  such  evidence  with  refer¬ 
ence  to  the  management  of  the  Institution  and 
the  treatment  of  its  instructors  as  Mr.  Langdon 
sees  fit  to  bring  forward  will  be  laid  before 
them.” 

Miss  Helen  Parley  became  that  very  day  the 
guest  of  Miss  Arabella  Thornton,  the  Judge’s 
daughter.  Mr.  Bernard  made  his  appearance  a 
week  or  two  later  at  the  Lectures,  where  the  Pro¬ 
fessor  first  introduced  him  to  the  reader. 

He  stayed  after  the  class  had  left  the  room. 

“  Ah,  Mr.  Langdon !  how  do  you  do  ?  Very 
glad  to  see  you  back  again.  How  have  you  been 
since  our  correspondence  on  Fascination  and 
other  curious  scientific  questions  ?  ” 

It  was  the  Professor  who  spoke,  —  whom  the 
reader  will  recognize  as  myself,  the  teller  of  this 
story. 

“  I  have  been  well,”  Mr.  Bernard  answered, 
With  a  serious  look  which  invited  a  further  ques¬ 
tion. 

“  I  hope  you  have  had  none  of  those  painful 
or  dangerous  experiences  you  seemed  to  be  think  - 


ELSIE  VENNER 


5KD 


ing  of  when  you  wrote ;  at  any  rate,  you  have 
escaped  having  your  obituary  written.” 

u  I  have  seen  some  things  worth  remembering. 
Shall  I  call  on  you  this  evening  and  tell  you 
about  them  ?  ” 

“  I  shall  be  most  happy  to  see  you.” 

This  was  the  way  in  which  I,  the  Professor, 
became  acquainted  with  some  of  the  leading 
events  of  this  story.  They  interested  me  suffi¬ 
ciently  to  lead  me  to  avail  myself  of  all  those 
other  extraordinary  methods  of  obtaining  infor¬ 
mation  well  known  to  writers  of  narrative. 

Mr.  Langdon  seemed  to  me  to  have  gained  in 
seriousness  and  strength  of  character  by  his  late 
experiences.  He  threw  his  whole  energies  into 
his  studies  with  an  effect  which  distanced  all  his 
previous  efforts.  Remembering  my  former  hint, 
he  employed  his  spare  hours  in  writing  for  the 
annual  prizes,  both  of  which  he  took  by  a  unani¬ 
mous  vote  of  the  judges.  Those  who  heard  him 
read  his  Thesis  at  the  Medical  Commencement 
will  not  soon  forget  the  impression  made  by  hia 
fine  personal  appearance  and  manners,  nor  the 
Vniversal  interest  excited  in  the  audience,  as  he 
read,  with  his  beautiful  enunciation,  that  striking 
paper  entitled  u  Unresolved  Nebula?  in  Vital  Sci¬ 
ence.”  It  was  a  general  remark  of  the  Faculty, 
—  and  old  Doctor  Kittredge,  who  had  come  down 
on  purpose  to  hear  Mr.  Langdon,  heartily  agreed 
to  it,  —  that  there  had  never  been  a  diploma  filled 


590 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


up,  since  the  institution  which  conferred  upon 
him  the  degree  of  Doctor  Medicince  was  founded, 
which  carried  with  it  more  of  promise  to  the  pro¬ 
fession  than  that  which  bore  the  name  of 


SSctmarttUB  <£arfil  lianfitoon. 


ELSIE  VENNEB. 


591 


CHAPTER  XXXIL 


CONCLUSION. 


Mr.  Bernard  Langdon  had  no  sooner  taken 
his  degree,  than,  in  accordance  with  the  advice 
of  one  of  his  teachers  whom  he  frequently  con¬ 
sulted,  he  took  an  office  in  the  heart  of  the  city 
where  he  had  studied.  He  had  thought  of  begin¬ 
ning  in  a  suburb  or  some  remoter  district  of  the 


city  proper. 

“  No,”  said  his  teacher,  —  to  wit,  myself,  — 

M  don’t  do  any  such  thing.  You  are  made  for 
the  best  kind  of  practice ;  don’t  hamper  yourself 
with  an  outside  constituency,  such  as  belongs  to 
a  practitioner  of  the  second  class.  When  a  fellow 
like  you  chooses  his  beat,  he  must  look  ahead  a 
little.  Take  care  of  all  the  poor  that  apply  to 
you,  but  leave  the  half-pay  classes  to  a  different 
style  of  doctor,  —  the  people  who  spend  one  half 
their  time  in  taking  care  of  their  patients,  and  the 
other  half  in  squeezing  out  their  money.  Go  for 
the  swell-fronts  and  south-exposure  houses;  the 
folks  inside  are  just  as  good  as  other  people,  and 
the  pleasantest,  on  the  whole,  to  take  care  of. 
They  must  have  somebody,  and  they  like  a  gen¬ 
tleman  best.  Don’t  throw  yourself  awfl'j  - — ^ 


592 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


have  a  good  presence  and  pleasing  manners. 
Yon  wear  white  linen  by  inherited  instinct 
Yon  can  pronounce  the  word  view.  Yon  have 
all  the  elements  of  success ;  go  and  take  it.  Be 
polite  and  generous,  but  don’t  undervalue  your¬ 
self.  You  will  be  useful,  at  any  rate ;  you  may 
just  as  well  be  happy,  while  you  are  about  it 
The  highest  social  class  furnishes  incomparably 
the  best  patients,  taking  them  by  and  large.  Be¬ 
sides,  when  they  won’t  get  well  and  bore  you  to 
death,  you  can  send  ’em  off  to  travel.  Mind  me 
now,  and  take  the  tops  of  your  sparrowgrass. 
Somebody  must  have  ’em,  —  why  shouldn’t  you  ? 
If  you  don’t  take  your  chance,  you’ll  get  the  butt- 
ends  as  a  matter  of  course.” 

Mr.  Bernard  talked  like  a  young  man  full  of 
noble  sentiments.  He  wanted  to  be  useful  to  his 
fellow-beings.  Their  social  differences  were  noth¬ 
ing  to  him.  He  would  never  court  the  rich,  — 
he  would  go  where  he  was  called.  He  would 
rather  save  the  life  of  a  poor  mother  of  a  family 
than  that  of  half  a  dozen  old  gouty  millionnaires 
whose  heirs  had  been  yawning  and  stretching 
these  ten  years  to  get  rid  of  them. 

“  Generous  emotions  !  ”  I  exclaimed.  “  Cher¬ 
ish  ’em ;  cling  to  ’em  till  you  are  fifty,  till  you  are 
seventy,  till  you  are  ninety !  But  do  as  I  tell 
you, — -strike  for  the  best  circle  of  practice,  and 
you’ll  be  sure  to  get  it !  ” 

Mr.  Langdon  did  as  I  told  him,  —  took  a  gen-* 
teel  office,  furnished  it  neatlv  dressed  with  a 


ELSIE  VE2INER. 


593 


certain  elegance,  soon  made  a  pleasant  circle  of 
acquaintances,  and  began  to  work  his  way  into 
the  right  kind  of  business.  I  missed  him,  how¬ 
ever,  for  some  days,  not  long  after  he  had  opened 
his  office.  On  his  return,  he  told  me  he  had  been 
up  at  Rockland,  by  special  invitation,  to  attend 
the  wedding  of  Mr.  Dudley  Yenner  and  Miss 
Helen  Darley.  He  gave  me  a  full  account  of 
the  ceremony,  which  I  regret  that  I  cannot  relate 
in  full.  “  Helen  looked  like  an  angel,” — that,  I 
am  sure,  was  one  of  his  expressions.  As  for  her 
dress,  I  should  like  to  give  the  details,  but  am 
afraid  of  committing  blunders,  as  men  always  do, 
when  they  undertake  to  describe  such  matters. 
White  dress,  anyhow, — that  I  am  sure  of, — 
with  orange-flowers,  and  the  most  wonderful  lace 
veil  that  was  ever  seen  or  heard  of.  The  Rever¬ 
end  Doctor  Honeywood  performed  the  ceremony, 
of  course.  The  good  people  seemed  to  have  for¬ 
gotten  they  ever  had  had  any  other  minister,  — 
except  Deacon  Shearer  and  his  set  of  malecon- 
tents,  who  were  doing  a  dull  business  in  the 
meeting-house  lately  occupied  by  the  Reverend 
Mr.  Fairweather. 

“  Who  was  at  the  wedding  ?  ” 

“Everybody,  pretty  much.  They  wanted  to 
keep  it  quiet,  but  it  was  of  no  use.  Married  at 
church.  Front  pews,  old  Doctor  Kittredge  and 
oil  the  mansion-house  people  and  distinguished 
strangers, —  Colonel  Sprowle  and  family,  includ¬ 
ing  Matilda’s  young  gentleman,  a  graduate  of 
one  of  the  fresh-water  colleges, —  Mrs.  Pick]  ns 


594 


ELSIE  VESNER. 


(late  Widow  Rowens)  and  husband,  —  Deacon 
Soper  and  numerous  parishioners.  A  little  near¬ 
er  the  door,  Abel,  the  Doctor’s  man,  and  Elbridge, 
who  drove  them  to  church  in  the  family-coach 
Father  Fairweather,  as  they  all  call  him  now, 
came  in  late  with  Father  Me  Shane.” 

“And  Silas  Peckham  ?  ” 

“  Oh,  Silas  had  left  The  School  and  Rockland, 
Cut  up  altogether  too  badly  in  the  examination 
instituted  by  the  Trustees.  Had  removed  over 
to  Tamarack,  and  thought  of  renting  a  large 
house  and  1  farming  9  the  town-poor.” 

Some  time  after  this,  as  I  was  walking  with  a 
young  friend  along  by  the  swell-fronts  and  south 
exposures,  whom  should  I  see  but  Mr.  Bernard 
Langdon,  looking  remarkably  happy,  and  keeping 
step  by  the  side  of  a  very  handsome  and  singu¬ 
larly  well-dressed  young  lady  ?  He  bowed  and 
lifted  his  hat  as  we  passed. 

“  Who  is  that  pretty  girl  my  young  doctor  has 
got  there  ?  ”  I  said  to  my  companion. 

“Who  is  that?”  he  answered.  “You  don’t 
know  ?  Why,  that  is  neither  more  nor  less  than 
Miss  Letitia  Forrester,  daughter  of — of  —  why, 
the  great  banking-firm,  you  know,  Bilyuns  Broth¬ 
ers  6c  Forrester.  Got  acquainted  with  her  in  the 
country,  they  say.  There’s  a  story  that  they’re 
engaged,  or  like  to  be,  if  the  firm  consents.” 

“  Oh  !  ”  I  said. 

I  did  not  like  the  look  of  it  in  the  least.  Too 
young,  —  too  young.  Has  not  taken  any  position 


ELSIE  VENNER. 


595 


yet.  No  right  to  ask  for  the  hand  of  Bilyuns 
Brothers  &  Co.’s  daughter.  Besides,  it  will  spoil 
him  for  practice,  if  he  marries  a  rich  girl  before 
he  has  formed  habits  of  work. 

I  looked  in  at  his  office  the  next  day.  A  box 
of  white  kids  was  lying  open  on  the  table.  A 
three-cornered  note,  directed  in  a  very  delicate 
lady’s-hand,  was  distinguishable  among  a  heap 
of  papers.  I  was  just  going  to  call  him  to  ac¬ 
count  for  his  proceedings,  when  he  pushed  the 
three-cornered  note  aside  and  took  up  a  letter 
with  a  great  corporation-seal  upon  it.  He  had 
received  the  offer  of  a  professor’s  chair  in  an 
ancient  and  distinguished  institution. 

44  Pretty  well  for  three-and-twenty,  my  boy,” 
I  said.  44 1  suppose  you’ll  think  you  must  be 
married  one  of  these  days,  if  you  accept  this 
office.” 

Mr.  Langdon  blushed. —  There  had  been  sto¬ 
ries  about  him,  he  knew.  His  name  had  been 
mentioned  in  connection  with  that  of  a  very 
charming  young  lady.  The  current  reports  were 
not  true.  He  had  met  this  young  lady,  and  been 
much  pleased  with  her,  in  the  country,  at  the 
house  of  her  grandfather,  the  Reverend  Doctor 
Honeywood,  —  you  remember  Miss  Letitia  For¬ 
rester,  whom  I  have  mentioned  repeatedly  ?  On 
coming  to  town,  he  found  his  country-acquaint- 
ance  in  a  social  position  which  seemed  to  dis¬ 
courage  his  continued  intimacy.  He  had  discov¬ 
ered,  however,  that  he  was  a  not  unwelcome 
vifliior.  and  had  kept  up  friendly  relations  with 


596 


ELSIE  VENDER. 


her.  But  there  was  no  truth  in  the  current  re« 
ports,  —  none  at  all. 

Some  months  had  passed,  after  this  visit,  when 
I  happened  one  evening  to  stroll  into  a  box  in  one 
of  the  principal  theatres  of  the  city.  A  small 
party  sat  on  the  seats  before  me  :  a  middle-aged 
gentleman  and  his  lady,  in  front,  and  directly 
behind  them  my  young  doctor  and  the  same  very 
handsome  young  lady  I  had  seen  him  walking 
with  on  the  sidewalk  before  the  swell-fronts  and 
south-exposures.  As  Professor  Langdon  seemed 
to  be  very  much  taken  up  with  his  companion, 
and  both  of  them  looked  as  if  they  were  enjoying 
themselves,  I  determined  not  to  make  my  pres¬ 
ence  known  to  my  young  friend,  and  to  withdraw 
quietly  after  feasting  my  eyes  with  the  sight  of 
them  for  a  few  minutes. 

“  It  looks  as  if  something  might  come  of  it,’1 
I  said  to  myself.  At  that  moment  the  young 
lady  lifted  her  arm  accidentally  in  such  a  way 
that  the  light  fell  upon  the  clasp  of  a  chain  which 
encircled  her  wrist.  My  eyes  filled  with  tears  as 
I  read  upon  the  clasp,  in  sharp-cut  Italic  letters, 
E  V,  They  were  tears  at  once  of  sad  remem¬ 
brance  and  of  joyous  anticipation ;  for  the  orna¬ 
ment  on  which  I  looked  was  the  double  pledge 
of  a  dead  sorrow  and  a  living  affection.  It  was 
the  golden  bracelet,  —  the  parting-gift  of  Elsi# 
Venner. 


THE  END. 


* 


